Every moment. 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. It was approached from the street by a flight of broad stone steps, leading to a ponderous door, plated with iron, and secured on the inner side by huge bolts, and a lock, with wards of a prodigious size. Keeping to the shadow of the house, he crept forward until he could see better without, he hoped, being seen. During the wet monsoon the west beach was always littered.
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