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. Planting his knee against her side, he pulled her towards him with one hand, while with the other he sought his knife. "The end is the most beautiful in English literature. And severely hurt that pig, which was a very good thing. They smelled good, but they no longer smelled like food.
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