Then Manning flopped back in his chair and dropped his chin like a man shot. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. Women are not in the world in the same sense that men are—fighting individuals in a scramble. Nowhere could he see that reaching, menacing Hand. 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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