Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. “Oh, but life is difficult!” she groaned. “John, don’t!” she cried. She had to resist an impulse of sheer terror, to run out after them and give in.
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