The blinds were all drawn, the sunlight kept out, one could not tell what colors these gray swathings hid. A man might be without relatives, but certainly he would not be without friends, that is to say, without letters. You are alone in the world, you have no one save yourself to consider. 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.
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