He could not kiss Ruth because the acquired conscience—struggling on its way to limbo—made the idea repellant. It was rude and disrespectful to raise her eyes to him, her mother had warned. It’s only as if I’d begun to know you the day before yesterday or there-abouts. Yet, here she was, in the ancient Chinese city, weaving in and out of the narrow streets some scarcely wide enough for two men to walk abreast, streets that boiled and eddied with yellow human beings, who worshipped strange gods, ate strange foods, and diffused strange suffocating smells. I will have nothing to do with you. ‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. I can't invent; the thing won't come.
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