He looked up to see an ancient coach making its ponderous way down the street. “About my sister,” she repeated slowly. Inside was the blue stone she had lost in the 1800’s. “She contrives somehow to strike the personal note in an amazing manner. “What’s the objection?” “I suppose she ought to know?” said Gwen to her mother, trying to alter the key of the conversation. His face clouded with anger. 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.
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