He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. " "You are offering your hand to me?" "Without reservations. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled.
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