Ann Veronica tried to seem absolutely unconcerned. 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. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. It is different. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. I struck him across the mouth, and across the eyes.
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