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. Trodger might not need his hair dressed, but the flagon of ale that each soldier quaffed would be welcome—once his captain had departed, thought Roding cynically. ’ ‘Gad, but she’s a beauty,’ gasped Hilary, and slammed his sword back in its scabbard. I should have gone mad without it. She became aware of the modelling of his ear, of the muscles of his neck and the textures of the hair that came off his brow, the soft minute curve of eyelid that she could just see beyond his brow; she perceived all these familiar objects as though they were acutely beautiful things. It resembled Mardi Gras, and she thought disdainfully of New Orleans.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 01-10-2024 21:51:24