There was. He stepped in with a heavy foreboding of calamity. He could not kiss Ruth because the acquired conscience—struggling on its way to limbo—made the idea repellant. She began to miss him when he was gone during the day and cherish the quiet times he spent only with her. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. At first she could not tell what it was; but as her eyes became accustomed to the light, she recognized the old coat.
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