A pair of long-lashed blue eyes studied them both as she slowly brought her hands down to rest by her sides. And such skirts as Ann Veronica had had when she entered the valley of Saas were safely packed away in the hotel, and she wore a leather belt and loose knickerbockers and puttees—a costume that suited the fine, long lines of her limbs far better than any feminine walking-dress could do. When she came to, she was lying with her head in Martha’s lap, and a livid bruise was forming at the point of a raging headache. Impressed with this idea, he paused for a moment to listen. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. Given the proper incentive, who could say that he might not likewise go nobly to some fine end? She thrilled.
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