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. Spurling, as if struck by a sudden idea. Melusine was silent, revolving this outcome in her mind as she stared at Roding, who was frowning at her in a puzzled way. I never intended it to be anything but a short story, for I had never completed even the shortest of stories unless forced to in grammar school.
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