But her mind was ruffled, and its mirror-like surface of satisfaction was not easily restored. "Where am I to take it to?" asked Sheppard. 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. “Poor little Miniver! What can she be but what she is?. The poor fellow's half smothered. I will be up with my wife and daughter after lunch. At least I rather hoped I might spend my time chasing smugglers, which would have afforded some excitement. ’ He regarded her thoughtfully.
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