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. She could not hide her face. It was long and narrow, with a ceiling supported by huge uncovered rafters, and so low as scarcely to allow a tall man like himself to stand erect beneath it. "The worst house in the neighbourhood—the constant haunt of reprobates and thieves," groaned Wood. Thunder rumbled behind the manicured hills. Even though the individual faces of her audience were not to be singled out, she had been conscious from the first moment of her appearance that something was wrong.
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