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. Three times he uttered a phrase: "A djinn in a blue-serge coat!" And each time he would follow it with a chuckle—the chuckle of a soul in damnation. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. She crawled underneath the soft white sheets, reclining and pulling the blankets up to her chin. She went across to the little window again, her back to Melusine. That's a most damnable lie; and when she finds out, 'tis then she will not forgive. . . ’ She counted off on her fingers. Tell me exactly what has happened.
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