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. He did not come out of his chloroform coma and sailed weakly to his death. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. ’ He gestured towards the fulminating general. "I am expected, I find," observed Jack, glancing at the well-covered board.
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