She is, in her way, a dear. “—but this cannot be. What of Gosse, whom those soldiers had allowed to escape? Hiding—or perhaps gone. 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. “There ought to be some means of getting at him,” he said. "Take off the ruffles, Blueskin," rejoined Wild.
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