It was an odd room, used principally for the reception of guests and visiting dignitaries, packed from end to end with ill-assorted sofas and padded chairs. Every house-top, every window, every wall, every projection, had its occupants. And Ramage too—about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor. 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. "Your uncle must protect you. But what did he know beyond these facts? Nothing, clearly. “I am exceedingly sorry,” he said. “She has improved her style,” someone declared. Behind her stood Caliban, chuckling to himself, and grinning from ear to ear.
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