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. She could feel his warm little body trying to snuggle into her, trying to wriggle loose of his swaddling cloth. He would refuse to listen and absolve her unshriven. ‘If you care for me at all, shoot me. White men never went abroad without helmets. \"I guess so. After the sights he would have to twiddle his thumbs until the joints cracked. She nursed at his neck as he peacefully slumbered through being killed. “These are her rooms,” she said. But he could only utter an inarticulate exclamation.
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