The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. A lucky escape. " But Spurlock put up his guard. The service began. " "Don't scold him, father," interposed Thames; "he's been frightened enough already. 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. Those awful chairs!" After dinner the spinsters proceeded to inscribe their accustomed quota of postcards, and Ruth was left to herself.
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