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. He shrieked with agony, and clung with desperate tenacity to the roughened stones. "In Canton. " "To-morrow will be too late," replied the widow, in a hollow voice, "I feel it will. There’d only be endless rows if I was at home. His brain reeled. Fate has two methods of procedure—the sudden and the long-drawn-out. Michelle was on her like a fly, asking her questions about her past foster homes she did her best to avoid, pretending to be swamped every night with sudden reams of homework and unable to be reached by phone.
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