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. I’m in a mess—a nasty mess! a filthy mess! Oh, no end of a mess! “Do you hear, Ann Veronica?—you’re in a nasty, filthy, unforgivable mess! “Haven’t I just made a silly mess of things? “Forty pounds! I haven’t got twenty!” She got up, stamped with her foot, and then, suddenly remembering the lodger below, sat down and wrenched off her boots. “You have the ideas. I saw the motor dashed to pieces against the wall, and I saw him pitched on his head into the road. ‘I do not understand you. "Rot, weren't they?" "No. McClintock, coming from below, saw them and went forward. A dreamy sense of content crept over him. And look, again, at the women one finds letting lodgings. Perhaps it had been pick-pocketed or jostled from her dress in a hunt. Be a good wife to him.
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