There was no reason why she shouldn’t be his restrained and dignified friend. 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. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. It tore her apart. " "Did I hear you aright?" asked Trenchard, with startling eagerness. IX. No, don’t interrupt me. ‘Who is to be angry with you now?’ ‘Miss Prudence, that’s who,’ stated Joan bluntly.
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