He could not kiss Ruth because the acquired conscience—struggling on its way to limbo—made the idea repellant. For I still love her mother. But I do not love you. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. He not only failed in making any impression, but seemed to increase the difficulties, for after an hour's toil he had broken the nail and slightly bent the iron bar. The voice of the young seaman came floating down from the masthead, and the story of the immortal lovers had begun.
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