Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. 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. ‘Pardon, milor’,’ said Valade, ‘but Monsieur Charvill, he was not at fault. “I MUST speak to you,” he said. The light disappeared.
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