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. They were alike in one phase—loveless and lonely. She was not allowed to bathe herself: another prisoner, with a privileged manner, washed her. The latch had not fully caught. A single blanket constituted his sole covering at night. ‘I take it that you like this great-niece of mine?’ ‘One cannot help but do so. “Shhh.
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