She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. 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. . ’ ‘Oui, mais—safe. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. Nice position. Think if your own mother was alive!” He paused, deeply moved. ‘They hold their nose up, so.
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