” He paused and looked at her, and said, with a sudden drop into a confidential undertone, “Or else I want to pray. There is scarcely one chance in a dozen of saving his life; there would be none at all if he were moved. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. They were only passers-by.
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