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. “I do hope I have been able to make you understand how I feel, that you don’t consider me a hopeless prig. ‘But I will tell you this, mon vieux. “Sebastianus? Where did my husband go?” He smiled at her gently, patronizingly, as he prevented her from movement or escape. “Really,” she said.
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