She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. With the aid of a penknife he ripped the shoulder seams and drew out the ten one-thousand dollar bills. Then she sang. She kept thinking she was thinking about Mr. 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.
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