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. She recovered herself, however, with amazing facility. “It’s like this,” he said, and dragged a stool beside her and sat down with his elbow four inches from hers and made a sketch. She moved her hand off of his knee, deliberately slow. It is your own choice, isn’t it?” She nodded. He cannot. Though he never seen so much of Miss Mary as I did.
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