"Did I hear you …" began McClintock. Better even than these. "No, Rollo; not this afternoon. 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. His face was much handsomer than Gianfrancesco’s, his lips thinner, his brow much more noble and wise. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise.
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