‘You don’t mind if I sit down?’ She considered him a moment, her head a little on one side. “We’re in for it. After all, they’re history in the making. ” She agreed. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. 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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