She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. Before ever I knew you. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend. “One day,” he resumed, “we will start off early and come down into Kandersteg and up these zigzags and here and here, and so past this Daubensee to a tiny inn—it won’t be busy yet, though; we may get it all to ourselves—on the brim of the steepest zigzag you can imagine, thousands of feet of zigzag; and you will sit and eat lunch with me and look out across the Rhone Valley and over blue distances beyond blue distances to the Matterhorn and Monte Rosa and a long regiment of sunny, snowy mountains. It was a castoff of Shari’s from her brief obsession with sewing.
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