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. After all, she only LOOKED a woman. She moved her hand off of his knee, deliberately slow. ‘But there is something still I do not understand. She crawled over and caught at the skirts of this white woman who understood. You fooled me this morning; but I overheard two old maids talking about you and the young man.
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