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. Neither your aunt nor I have any other thought but what is best for you. From time to time she would come upon a line of singular beauty or a paragraph full of haunting music; and these would send her rushing on for something that never happened. For the sort of love-making you think about. And, anyhow, it doesn’t matter to us. She tried not to blush. In this state, it will be easy to draw him into a snare. . She put her head out of the window.
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