Let me go my own way towards them. 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. Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole. "Yes, now," rejoined the infuriated dame; "perhaps, I may never have another opportunity.
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