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It might have been the moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth. E. . “Listen! There was a Meysey Hill in Paris, an American railway millionaire. "Good-b'ye!" And with a cordial shake of the hand he took his departure. 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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