With his black and gray hair, his gray-green eyes were a striking contrast and he looked even younger, as if he had been frozen at age thirty-three. At Boulogne they took train to Basle; next morning they breakfasted together in the buffet of that station, and thence they caught the Interlaken express, and so went by way of Spies to Frutigen. “Have you dropped from the skies?” Sydney asked wonderingly. There were some deepseated fears of the rot spreading to England, if the simmering discontent of the peasantry of France were to erupt any further. He saw that she was tense. “The life of a private secretary is positively one of slavery. ” “That’s horrible!” He gasped.
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