‘This from a man who calls himself my friend. You’re a far cry from your usual gloomy self these days. 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. Her head was downcast as she studied the museum-like exhibits of various dusts on the resilient tile flooring. Through that she had to go. "Where is the boy?" demanded Sir Rowland. We were worried. ” She became aware of her aunt, through the panes of the greenhouse, advancing with an air of serene unconsciousness from among the raspberry canes.
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