She was the type that people of every age gravitated to, naturally affable and kind to everyone. ‘He prayeth best who loveth best—all things both great and small. Thames, you needn't tidy yourself, as you've hurt your arm. “Why should one pretend?” she whispered. 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. The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. Ruth stared into the painted face, now sundrily cracked by the coursing tears.
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