“My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. She held it down with the poker, looking nervously over her shoulder. A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin. The thought passed through his mind even as he started to cross the terrace at a jogtrot, moving to head her off.
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