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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. If he had eaten food, this wouldn't have happened. The windows of these rooms were obscured with draperies, their floors a carpet patchwork; the china ornaments on their mantels were of a class apart. ” She roused herself from some dream at the word. Her anger parlayed with her confusion, as she realized that the new marriage was about as optional as the first one and her hunger was growing inside her like a weed. ‘Go on, Gerald. “—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste. She exhaled, feeling the tension drain from her shoulders and arms.
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