Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. The conversation turned towards the subject of the Diedermayer’s many European vacations. And he unsheathed his sword. Leonardo he was my—’ ‘Don’t say it,’ Gerald cut in hoarsely. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. It appeared highly probable to her that he would stop her allowance. We pretend we never think of everything that makes us what we are. .
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