” “And you?” asked David Courtlaw. 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. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. The teacher droned on and on about the mournful funerary love of Romeo and Juliet, a tale she had long since tired of. Sheppard, and regarding her with an insolent and threatening glance.
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