His job as a painter was wearing him down acutely as he aged. Things were thrown here and there, to be taken up, or again cast aside, as the whim arose; while the broken-backed chairs and crazy table bore the marks of many a conflict. “What have you done?” 212 “It is your own fault, Lucia. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. 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. He cocked an eyebrow. " "That sounds funny … to play it with your feet!" McClintock laughed.
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