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. " "What gives you that idea?" "Well, we could find no letter of credit, no letters, no labels in his clothes—not a single clew to his real identity. They walked across a moat of pea gravel that crunched like noisy cereal under their feet. She spotted her opportunity. " "I should have opened that letter in the beginning," said the doctor. “Slavery! Downtroddenness! When I think of it I feel all over boot marks— men’s boots. She looked in the glass over and over as she checked for lint and makeup streaks. We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream. ‘You have rifled his papers.
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