Part 7 As they came back from that day’s climb—it was up the Mittaghorn—they had to cross a shining space of wet, steep rocks between two grass slopes that needed a little care. At any rate, it would be good to hear him saying the sort of things he did—perhaps now she would grasp them better—with this world-shaking secret brandishing itself about inside her head within a yard of him. But there was, it insisted, no mobility in his face, no movement, nothing about him that warmed. “My friend,” she said, “no! Let me tell you this. Well, well; all he himself could do would be to watch this singular drama unroll.
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