But he wrote on. ’ She grimaced. She dismissed the whole subject with a little shrug of the shoulders. Dreams of adorable infants danced through her head as she cradled blankets in her arms. 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. Kneebone—she was too well acquainted; having, more than once, been obliged to repel his advances; and, though his impertinence would have given her little concern at another season, it now added considerably to her distraction.
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