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. ‘You usually do,’ he said lightly. Sir John, by instinct and training, was an unimaginative person. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. “To my chagrin, I have.
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