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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 was glad you did not send it back again,” he said. ‘We were wondering about that. Her hair, once red, faded to a thin gray that she kept cut into a practical short bob. Once she had asked him: "Are you my father?" He had answered: "I am. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. ’ ‘Was.
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