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. She could not help but swoon a little. "Will you write," asked the doctor, "and tell me how you are getting along?" "Oh, yes!" "The last advice I can give you is this: excite his imagination; get him started with his writing. “Were you thinking of private apartments, a boarding-house or an hotel?” she asked. She knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol.
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