. ’ ‘That is what you thought of me. 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. There never is much left for me. Men had tried that before, but never until now had they been quick enough. The ruffled chemise-front under the wide lapels of her waistcoat and jacket no longer quivered, and her pose, with the full cloth petticoat spreading about her, was relaxed. Young, not much older than she was: she was twenty and he was possibly twenty-four. . She wanted to kiss his feet. I want you. He must be more or less of an age with this man.
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