“One day,” he resumed, “we will start off early and come down into Kandersteg and up these zigzags and here and here, and so past this Daubensee to a tiny inn—it won’t be busy yet, though; we may get it all to ourselves—on the brim of the steepest zigzag you can imagine, thousands of feet of zigzag; and you will sit and eat lunch with me and look out across the Rhone Valley and over blue distances beyond blue distances to the Matterhorn and Monte Rosa and a long regiment of sunny, snowy mountains. There was nothing on her face to hint of the misery that brimmed her heart this morning. Death belongs to God, young man. Lost, stolen, or strayed, the Young Person!. It was rigged up for the occasion as it has been many a time before. But, like all your overbearing sex, you must have your own way.
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