‘You wound me to the heart, Melusine. “You, anyhow, don’t deserve it,” he said. John was acutely focused upon her now, just as she had wanted him to be. He found that the skiff had been dashed against one of the buttresses of the bridge. He had set out to win her, and she had let him start. 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 grabbed her wrist and prised the weapon from her fingers, ignoring her other hand that clawed at his to try to retain the trophy. McClintock did not exaggerate his ability to read faces. His hands came up, his face broke apart.
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