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. A militiaman came belting down the stairs, another leapt from outside the front door, and a third, stalwart and stolid, came in through the door that led to the rooms to the front of the house. She said it audibly, having learned long since that an audible prayer was a concentrated one. The wheel and the navigating instruments were sternward, under a spread of heavy canvas, a protection against rain and sun. Gosse backed, not even attempting to parry so unorthodox a use of the foil. I was compelled to run away. I may want you. I jumped then—I was not even shaken.
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