"I can't say I do," replied Wood. It was you! It was exactly you, but it was probably the photo they thought it was your mother! I dug it up after combing the Reader’s Guide To Periodical Literature for like, six hours straight. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. CHAPTER XXIII Next morning Ruth did not refer to the episode on the sands of the lagoon. At any rate, here I am, and here I shall be, twenty thousand feet above all your poison-reeking cities, up where God’s wind comes fresh from heaven, very near indeed to the untrodden snows.
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