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. “None, I thank you,” he answered. She turned her head to each side. “I got Sydney’s telegram at ten o’clock, and caught the ten-thirty from the Gare du Nord. All the events of the previous day rushed to his recollection; and though he had been unintentionally the cause of his mother's death, he reproached himself as severely as if he had been her actual murderer. “Who the hell are you, Lucy?” “Promise me you will never tell anyone. ‘It did not seem to me that it was so.
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