She was practicing with them on that very day, and displaced a rather mediocre boy violinist who claimed “to be better at the viola anyway” as first chair. 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. “Of course he may merely have been telling her who we were, but I think it improbable. The thin stream of blood on which her eyes were fastened with a nameless horror reached almost to her feet. "Pick up that blade, Nab," vociferated Wild, finding himself hotly pressed, "and stab him. He could not promise that she would ever appear again in that house.
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