There was no such a thing as perfection in a mixed world. He was just as much a greater master than any other I ever saw, as he was a greater judge of time and measure. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. 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. He returned her impressive greeting almost mechanically. EPOCH THE FIRST, 1703.
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