For a time Spurlock did not move. 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. He took her hands firmly in his and raised them to his lips. ‘Up, Jacques, up,’ she ordered. And yet that could not be: it was a confession only in the event of his death. Nicholas is dead.
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