I sit back now, letting life slip by and musing upon it; and I find my loneliness sweet. . I bored him. 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. Ascending the stairs, and conducting them along a sombre gallery, in which Trenchard noticed that every door was painted black, and numbered, he stopped at the entrance of a chamber; and, selecting a key from the bunch at his girdle, unlocked it. ’ She ended on a note of sheer frustration, clenched fists beating the air.
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