Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand. Wood, in indignant surprise. ‘She is constantly thinking of you,’ I said. ‘You see now how dangerous it is to play this lone hand. “Please not now. "Can you pull him through?" was the anxious question. 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.
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