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 have no son," rejoined Sir Rowland, moodily. She searched for it for many days that stretched into weeks before she gave up. Ann Veronica’s tense nerves started, and she stood still with her eyes upon him, wondering what it might be that impended. ‘Parbleu,’ came indignantly from the lady.
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