” He said. E. 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. ” She removed some posters from a chair, and seated herself coolly. She felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty. The echo of those kindly words seemed still to ring in her ears. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. “I really owe him something of an apology. " Ruth did so, but without any particular fervour. The study seemed absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same father. Smith had never seen anything like it. For Ruth was in love, tenderly and beautifully in love; but she did not know how to express it beyond the fetch and carry phase. Annabel Pellissier was not like the others, he said.
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