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“YOU wouldn’t like to be independent?” he asked, abruptly. 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. "Hear me," he cried, restraining himself with difficulty. Russell burned like a beacon, but Capes illuminated by darting flashes and threw light, even if it was but momentary light, into a hundred corners that Russell left steadfastly in the shade. Her new husband had paid for a cadre of escorts back to Mantua.
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