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 not necessary,” Sir John answered stiffly. It’s well hidden, miss. Even her memories of he who had frequented her life for the longest period of years were worn and fading. She went from period to period exactly as she would have read prose; so that sense and music were equally balanced. Recovery impossible. Wood—" "That's false!" cried a voice behind him.
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