‘Might have forgiven him,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘if he hadn’t taken the babe. “Good evening, Dorling,” he said. Her husband had caught her leaning over a precipice into the ruins of the oubliette, and had punished her by flogging her back with a switch. 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.
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