" And he raised it in his arms. But I may yet live to thwart them. Jack paused for a moment, and found that his own adventures formed the subject of the ballad. I don’t know. Gerald studied the darkness beyond the aperture. It had rained during the night, and the patch-work pavement was greasy with mud. 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. She could think of nothing more to say. He stopped abruptly. . ’ ‘Some, of course,’ put in Gerald, ‘have been unable to recover anything. “So far you’ve got me and I you. Fifteen from forty is twenty-five. Ruth's arm trembled and her step faltered, but he was too far away in thought to be observant. That's the kind, my friend, that always fall soft.
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