He ran back to his car, glancing only once at the man in the car. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. At Boulogne they took train to Basle; next morning they breakfasted together in the buffet of that station, and thence they caught the Interlaken express, and so went by way of Spies to Frutigen. She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. We sha’n’t hang up on any misunderstanding. ‘Ain’t no call for you to go a-blaming of yourself.
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