He felt her warm breath upon his cheek, the perfume of her hair as she leaned over him. 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. “We are clerks in the same bank. What had shifted his casual interest was the visible prospect of a party of three who were coming down the packet gangplank. People of your sort—I don’t want the instincts to—to rush our situation. You are you. “It’s very good,” she said. He had certain orders from which on no account was he to deviate.
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