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. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it. ” “Delusion!” he muttered, glaring at her. “Anything is better than this—this stifled life down here. "Two hundred pounds!" exclaimed Ireton, "besides the governor's offer—that's three hundred. I daresay that is one of the names of the nuns in your convent.
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