“Is that plain?” she asked. ” “It’s an unrest—a longing—What’s that?” The waiter had intervened. And, with a glance of malignant exultation, he quitted the vault, and locked the door. At any rate, here I am, and here I shall be, twenty thousand feet above all your poison-reeking cities, up where God’s wind comes fresh from heaven, very near indeed to the untrodden snows. But no matter how you phrase it, the end is the same.
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