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. Martin came to the door, looking radiant and relieved. Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. I hope that James will not be long with that whisky and Apollinaris. He had an objective now. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. But he would die if he continued in this course.
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