“It was a bad day for me,” he said, speaking slowly and painfully. "You read it, Ruth. ” “You are sure that he asked for me—not for Annabel?” “Certain,” Courtlaw answered. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. “Yet it is my last evening, and I think —if you are sure that you would like to have me—that I will risk it. 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. She felt the bedsprings coil as he moved from his seated position, entranced.
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