Now that she was his, to make or mar, she presented an extraordinary fascination. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. He could not kiss Ruth because the acquired conscience—struggling on its way to limbo—made the idea repellant. You’re going to live under the cat’s foot. Had he been trying to stop the grim descent, and had he dimly perceived that perhaps a fine deed would serve as the initial barrier? A drunken idea—a pearl in the midst of a rubbish heap.
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