She had made a bed for herself out of wood and furs. ‘Jacques?’ she called out, forgetting the need for silence. I arrived here with something less than five pounds in my pocket. His throat filled; he wanted to weep. 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. All this torrent of misleading, spurious stuff that pours from the press. It was partly to pay a grudge he had against father.
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