She had not nursed Leonardo for weeks for nothing. 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 know there’s a sort of right in your impatience at the slowness of Progress. Pile it on! But if you can hear the voice of the mote, the speck, don't let her suffer for anything I've done. It was better even than the hymn-singing. I’m taking no chances. He lowered himself on to her. Sheila wouldn’t allow me to date a boy even if he was only fifteen—I mean sixteen, like I am, you see. I did not know what God had in mind then.
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