He passed, and came loitering back and stood beside her, silently looking into her face. Cahill gave me a hall pass. "And you have seen … drunken men?" Prudence's tones were full of suppressed horror. “They might do you good,” she remarked. Forgetting her occupation in her anger, she left off bathing Darrell's wrist; and, squeezing his arm so tightly that the boy winced with pain, she clapped her right hand upon her hip, and turned, with flashing eyes and an inflamed countenance, towards her crest-fallen spouse. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. 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 third time she escaped she reached the inconsequent barricade of the overturned table.
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