She had pushed aside her azure veil, taken off her snow-glasses, and sat smiling under her hand at the shining glories—the lit cornices, the blue shadows, the softly rounded, enormous snow masses, the deep places full of quivering luminosity—of the Taschhorn and Dom. He could not kiss Ruth because the acquired conscience—struggling on its way to limbo—made the idea repellant. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. You are afraid of the warmth in your blood.
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