Her father was holding her waist, smiling. Blueskin goes with me. John eased off. Her specialty is the central thing in life, it is life itself, the warmth of life, sex—and love. It had thrust her back with an undignified scuffle, with vulgar comedy, with an unendurable, scornful grin. She made a few protests, a few excuses for her action in accepting him, a few lame explanations, but he did not heed them or care for them. In the matter of his conscience he was primitive; and for an educated man to become primitive is to become something of a child.
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