The whole incident was so unexpected that neither Courtlaw nor Brendon were awaiting. The sunshine broke across each shoulder, one lance striking the yellow face of a Chinaman, queueless and dressed in European clothes, the other lance falling squarely upon the face of the man he had journeyed thirteen thousand miles to find. 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. His lawful wife; but nothing more; beyond that she was only an idea, a trust.
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