“Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites. “You are going to treat me as though I wasn’t. ” After all, it was not so easy. His frowning gaze came back to her. We aren’t afraid; we don’t bother. 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. This island was the one haven he had; he might be forced to remain here for several years—until the Hand had forgotten him.
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