And the woollen-draper departed. In between naps she increasingly found herself gazing at him, his large nose, his eyes circled in silvery plum shadows, his thin lips parted as he slept baring a rim of perfect teeth. Let him be sure. 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. ‘I can’t help but be sure,’ he returned shortly. She loved to walk through the gardens, graced with columns that loomed overhead. Lucy entered the room. Determined, however, not be taken with life, he held on. Years ago, when you were a girl and in the bloom of your beauty, I loved you.
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