” Anna stopped in front of her. 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. Stanley went on, “but there are things— there are stories about Ramage. She stopped abruptly at the sound of his voice, and lost the thread of what she was saying. ‘Go then. She gathered her black purse, a pointless thing made of cardboard covered in sateen and bejeweled with an assortment of rhinestones.
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