"The blood that has been spilt is that of his wife. 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. It was wonderful to think this thing had lived, had felt and suffered. The wine was sweetened with cinnamon and cloves and rare edible flowers, which her father had instructed her not to drink excessively of. " "She cannot stay here," the manager declared. Sheppard.
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