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He sent a speculative glance at the immobile yellow face. 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. “It is hateful—diabolical!” he exclaimed. Had he been trying to stop the grim descent, and had he dimly perceived that perhaps a fine deed would serve as the initial barrier? A drunken idea—a pearl in the midst of a rubbish heap. There is light enough from the sun,’ she said, relieved. He had, for the most part, been correct. .
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