She tried to compose her thoughts, to think of the last six months, to steep herself in the calm beauty of the surroundings. She stood, as it were, directed doorward, with her eyes watching every movement, listening to him, repelled by him and yet dimly understanding. 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. To even presume a lustful thought about her was to ask for one’s own death. Why not? Imagine I’ve had a fit of hysteria—and that I’ve come round. Mr. . "It is open," replied the lady, rushing towards it, and springing through the outlet. She occupied a small sofa, a little apart, a ruddy-complexioned gentleman some years her senior beside her, and glanced about with an air of considerable unease. I did so.
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