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 wanted to return his gaze but focused intently on a spot next to and above the brick fireplace, as her music teachers had always taught her to do instead of looking directly at the audience. There was no reason why she shouldn’t be Capes’ friend. She had fallen asleep on the wooden bed, uncaring of lice or bedbugs. I mean Miss Charvill no harm.
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