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. ‘Inside, miss!’ ‘But what is it?’ ‘Quick! We need the major. “You are the most perfect, the most glorious of created things—tender, frank intellectual, brave, beautiful. I saw them both. "Take her," cried Jonathan; and, flinging the now inanimate body of the poor widow, who had fainted in the struggle, into the arms of Thames, he leapt through the window, and by the time the latter could consign her to Wood, and dart after him, he had disappeared. Her eyebrows were lifted in expostulation.
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