Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. That is so awful. " The Wastrel laughed. 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. I've a shrewd guess where he's taken refuge; but I'll ferret him out.
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