All her tender lures, inherent and acquired, had shattered themselves futilely against the reserve he had set between them. There was a lapse of time, an interval of blackness; then he found his hand in hers and she was leading him at a run up the side of the mountain. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death.
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