About two weeks ago. 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. And now YOU’RE on the war-path. Easy enough. After the usual laconic greetings, he drew him on one side. It felt too good. His gangling body was clothed in rusty twill trousers and a long black seersucker coat, buttoned to the throat, around which ran a collar which would have marked him the world over as a man of the Word. “You cannot! Oh, you cannot. ‘You don’t even know what it means, do you?’ Melusine frowned.
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