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. "It's like enough, I dare say," rejoined Sheppard. Do not let her think worse of me than I deserve,—or even so ill. I figured it would hurt your feelings if you knew I still talked to him, so I kept my mouth shut. It had thrust her back with an undignified scuffle, with vulgar comedy, with an unendurable, scornful grin. We fail altogether to understand your motives in doing what you are doing, or, indeed, how you are managing to do it, or what you are managing on. Beyond was an avenue of tall poplars that rose like columns, disappearing into undulating hills that were black with sleeping houses and fertile soil. Her head swam.
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