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. Vorsack looked pale and pink. Wild has done his business. “I am sure,” she said, “that you mean to stay until you are turned out. She posed herself before her mirror and surveyed herself with gravely thoughtful, gravely critical, and yet admiring eyes. “I’ve been playing since I was five, Lucy! You’re just more talented than I am.
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