The house had in fact been converted into a convent, but the fact could not be advertised, not even in the Catholic enclave that existed in this part of town. 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. “So it’s like you’re a dead end?” He asked innocently. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. She'll be mighty interesting to watch. “After all, it’s our honeymoon. "But we must be getting along if we are to lunch in the tower of the water-clock.
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