He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. She made a slow tour of the front of the house without success, and then started back along the rooms behind, dragging open the drapes each time to get just enough light to recognise what was on the walls. My friends consider it wonderfully faithful. 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 she came a few steps to meet him.
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