“Were you ever in love, aunt?” she asked. The door was too strong, and too well secured, to break open,—the walls too thick: but the ceiling,—if he could reach it—there, he doubted not, he could make an outlet. She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf. He could not kiss Ruth because the acquired conscience—struggling on its way to limbo—made the idea repellant. The lamp was not yet lit, and in the dim light he bent forward as though trying to look into her averted face.
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