Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. There was no railway beyond Frutigen in those days; they sent their baggage by post to Kandersteg, and walked along the mule path to the left of the stream to that queer hollow among the precipices, Blau See, where the petrifying branches of trees lie in the blue deeps of an icy lake, and pine-trees clamber among gigantic boulders. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. “Why did you lie to that man?” he asked fiercely. “It’s jolly of you to come,” said Ramage. It is nothing at all for you to worry about. Much more temperate; the discreet and joyless love of a virtuous, reluctant, condescending wife. “I didn’t know you were half-Gypsy either. Courtlaw. She was standing before a window, against the background of the rain-burdened April sky.
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