She was a large, resilient girl, with a foolish smile, a still more foolish expression of earnestness, and a throaty contralto voice. 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. “The life of a private secretary is positively one of slavery. He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute. 'Slife! you are wonderfully altered.
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