I thank God for His sunlight on your face. ‘I’m damned if I see what you have to complain of,’ uttered Charvill, a faintly bewildered note underlying his irascibility. It might have been the moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth. I’m not ashamed—of the things I’m doing. He turned me so that he could have a companion in his loneliness. He could not kiss Ruth because the acquired conscience—struggling on its way to limbo—made the idea repellant.
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