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. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. “I look older. If you are going that way, why not join us. And, mind, it's for his sister, Lady Trafford. She had made a bed for herself out of wood and furs. Borne in the arms of a couple of assistants, and preceded by Mrs.
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