There was a bare chance that he had been mistaken. All make the same answer—'d—n you, keep it. ” “I believe you,” she murmured. 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 was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore.
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