Shall I send him to Sir John?” Annabel was white to the lips, but her anger was not yet spent. Mr. "It's an odd-shaped one," rejoined Kneebone, examining it attentively. 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. She knew that in her new rôle she was as likely as not to be a rank failure. John laughed even harder, his eyes misting over.
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