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. ‘But my poor Jacques is wounded and—’ ‘All taken care of,’ interrupted Hilary. All the king's horses and all the king's men could not undo what was done; nor kill the strange exquisite flower that had grown up in his own lonely heart. Before she passed out she turned and faced Sir John.
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