” “One has theories,” said Ann Veronica, radiantly. The season was ripe for mating, she thought to herself bitterly. There was no railway beyond Frutigen in those days; they sent their baggage by post to Kandersteg, and walked along the mule path to the left of the stream to that queer hollow among the precipices, Blau See, where the petrifying branches of trees lie in the blue deeps of an icy lake, and pine-trees clamber among gigantic boulders. You will be free to remarry, of course. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. In the heart of the jungle the dog had his private muck baths.
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