“I suppose all life is an affair of chances. The idiots are marching through the streets in processions from town to town, whipping their own backs until they are covered in blood, spreading the bloody Pestilence wherever they go! The dead pile in the streets like timber. 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. “It’s okay Lucy. ” So they talked on whilst supper was served, falling easily into the spirit of the place, and yet both of them conscious of some new thing underlying the gaiety of their tongues and manner. He made a movement toward her, and then recalled the circumstances of their last conversation in that study. “That’s a weird name. "Don't you perceive, my dear Mrs.
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