He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. “No, you weren’t bad in the slightest. It is not, my dear Veronica, that I think there is any harm in you; there is not. ” “Have I done something wrong? Should I take you home?” “No. You must have figured that out by now. He could not kiss Ruth because the acquired conscience—struggling on its way to limbo—made the idea repellant.
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