Amid a litter of nails without heads, screws without worms, and locks without wards, lay a glue-pot and an oilstone, two articles which their owner was wont to term "his right hand and his left. Sanguine they were not. Strewn across the bed was a multitude of jumbled garments. F. It was like pouring a strong acid over dulled metal. Ruth, standing by, heard his true laughter for the first time. 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. \"I don't want to hurt you.
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