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. She was wearing a becoming tea-gown, and it was quite certain that Sir John would not be home for several hours at least. My garden-close would be a better thing than that. There was no one else in the doorway. Brown. For all the enervating heat, he applied himself vigorously to his tasks. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness.
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