‘But, Gérard—’ ‘Don’t start arguing,’ he said in a tone that brooked no defiance. And if this soi-disant Valade had already gone to Monsieur Charvill— ‘Very well,’ she said to Jack without turning round, ‘but now is Wednesday. He would have to sit down here in Canton and wait, perhaps for weeks. 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. Nervously he pulled alongside the dilapidated oncewhite farmhouse.
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