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His complexion was as blue as a sailor's jacket, and though Mr. 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. It was just such a bedroom as she would have chosen for herself. “Remember,” he said, “you are not by any means a dying man now, but you’ll never pull through if you don’t husband your strength. “Yes, I remember,” she said.
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