One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. Blue haze had settled beyond the black silhouettes of trees, graduating to the deep violet that began the night sky. A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin. "Forgive me—oh, forgive me!" "Forgive you—bless you!" she gasped. More strange stories were told of it than of any other house in London.
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