To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. He thought, too, of the fretful invalid who lay in the next room to his, whose money had created his business and made his position in the world. For a long time neither spoke again. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. Yet he’s been here for six years, and he’s as much a fixture as that sham mahogany sideboard. Few men could have done as much.
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