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. His grey eyes burned under his shaggy eyebrows. “By-the-bye, Lady Ferringhall,” he said, “do you know that I am a very great admirer of your sister’s? I wonder if she has ever spoken to you of me. “My word holds,” she said. Wood and several serving-men, all well armed, rushed into the room.
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