Alcohol— would you believe it?—steadies his nerves and keens his brain: which is against the laws of gravitation, you might say. 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. Another door was next opened, and, preceded by the ordinary, with the sacred volume in his hand, the prisoner entered the room.
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