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. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. “I am so sorry to have startled you,” she said, “but I was startled myself. Father and daughter regarded each other warily, each more than a little insecure with the other.
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