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. Courtlaw, who was sitting by the bedside, bent over him. Even the horns were easing into the concept and the woodwinds in the second movement were particularly well-orchestrated. Immeasurable disgust possessed her. White gasped, and then stiffened.
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