He tried again. 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. ’ ‘Then you will die at the hands of the canaille. F. “Indeed,” she said, “it was very fortunate that I should have met you this afternoon. He heard the struggle on the landing, the fall of the heavy body, the groan,—and excited almost to frenzy by his fears, he succeeded in forcing open the door. Finally she fell into reflection. Horribly skinny he was, and short too. Ruth stared into the painted face, now sundrily cracked by the coursing tears. Her hair is like, white blonde, but trust me, it’s not her natural color. Like carpenter, like chips. ” “It would be very kind of you,” she declared. "I think I may trust him with you, Sir," added she, taking up the candle.
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