"Are you my son? Are you Jack?" "I am," replied Jack. ” She interrupted as Ann Veronica was about to speak again, with a bright contagious hopefulness. Her eyes were wide open with amazement. 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. The gardens were tidy and geometric, each avenue with a different purpose: flowers for cutting, herbs, brightly colored vegetables. "Farewell!" blubbered the executioner's wife, pressing his hand to her lips.
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