Grasping one of chairs about the little table, he drew it forward and sat astride it, in a fashion as insolent as it was unexpected. CHAPTER XXIX. His hair flew out from the sides of his head like black bats from a belfry, it was unruly and long. 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. Is it so, Annabel?” “I did not know,” she faltered, “anything about you. Thank him, not me, man.
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