Petrified and speechless, he turned an imploring look at Wild, who was himself filled with astonishment at the pile of rubbish lying before him. “I am sick of it. "But, I half suspect, of your father. 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. Immediately a feathered hat emerged, under which a familiar countenance was visible.
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