It towered up high above the level of the pass, thousands of feet, still, shining, and white, and below, thousands of feet below, was a floor of little woolly clouds. . . “You Mr. He moved, after quiet intervals, with a quick little movement, and ever and again stroked his small mustache and coughed a selfconscious cough. Ruth crossed over to the dramatist of this tragicomedy and put a hand on his shoulder. Her back arched slightly in response.
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