Anna sat with the face of a Sphinx— waiting. 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. “Go on,” he said. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. She is curiously altered in many ways. His bodily suffering, however, was nothing compared with his mental anguish.
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