When Mrs. “I really do not believe,” he announced with satisfaction, “that any one would recognize me. And it's uncanny. 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. I care not. Springing upon the box, he told the coachman to make the best of his way to Saint Giles's. One transgression; he was sure of that. Spurlock—for that's his real name—were married at high noon. Profligate women are never reclaimed. But it means no end of a row. Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. “What have you done to yourself?” he muttered.
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