I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. Even in her painting smock and with her disarranged hair, the likeness between the two girls was marvellous. 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. “They told me D,” said Ann Veronica. She even thought that perhaps she might come to love him, in spite of that faint indefinable flavor of absurdity that pervaded his courtly bearing. “I like to think of your offer.
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