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. "You two will have this island by the ears," he said, wiping his eyes. Conscious of Mrs. “Oh, there’s no doubt of it! Since the girls of the eighties broke bounds and sailed away on bicycles—my young days go back to the very beginnings of that —it’s been one triumphant relaxation. She did not see the metal pole swing toward the back of her skull, nor did she feel her own blood spoiling her light hair after the dull crack of metal broke her flesh. Keeping to the shadow of the house, he crept forward until he could see better without, he hoped, being seen. I wonder.
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