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 felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty. Whenever you grow impatient with her, remember the folly of her father. His tone was rough, almost threatening. “So you’re the one my son has been talking about. He succeeded so well that they were almost in Montague Street before Anna stopped short. She struggled not to be afraid.
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