“You silly wimmin,” he said over and over again throughout the hearing, plucking at his blotting-pad with busy hands. I’m sorry. I have always loved you. I'm a stickler about clothes and clean chins. 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. It had been her home for hundreds of years. It hardly served his interests.
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