But I vowed that Ruth should never suffer the way I did—and do. With a well-simulated unconcern and a heightened color she finished her breakfast. 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. “I am lonely. Something as yet unformulated within her kept her estranged from all these practical aspects of her beliefs. The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. The Dawn Pearl.
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