“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. It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger. When I was younger, I was very sick with a deadly flu. He took his seat at the table, but leaned forward to address her. Amidship there was also canvas, and like that over the wheel, drab and dirty. He was not particularly grateful for the present situation. Grudgingly he admired her.
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