If only monsieur le baron had said nothing, or perhaps instead accepted the couple as the Valades and agreed to help them. Its dreariness, like the filthiness of the police cell, was a discovery for her. His ideas about girls and women were of a sentimental and modest quality; they were creatures, he thought, either too bad for a modern vocabulary, and then frequently most undesirably desirable, or too pure and good for life. 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.
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