He could not kiss Ruth because the acquired conscience—struggling on its way to limbo—made the idea repellant. I mean that it doesn’t interest you in itself. She winked at him as he shut the door. I know now that I was mistaken. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. After a series of mental gymnastics—occupying the space of a few seconds—it came to him with a shock that here was a new specimen of the species. “I wish I could make every woman, every girl, see this as clearly as I see it—just what the Vote means to us.
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