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. "But we must be getting along if we are to lunch in the tower of the water-clock. Blood dripped down one side of her forehead. “We are both of us trenching upon forbidden ground,” she said. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. The delay was only momentary. Some of the lunatics were rattling their chains; some shrieking; some singing; some beating with frantic violence against the doors. From me.
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