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. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. Some of the hotel guests can act as witnesses. She knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol. Even Lucy’s bra and panties, the ubiquitous polyester underwire and matching cotton bikini briefs from Kmart, were gone. The idea of anything criminal never entered her thoughts. The perfume was the only one she ever used. “Before you do anything else I should advise you to secure those charred fragments of paper from the grate. Nevertheless, one day Sebastian looked at her and said, “Your smile today is delightful, my Lucia. For my part, I think those shackles extremely becoming. I thought if you were living, and not captured, I should find you here,—and I was right. She says to be home by one AM.
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