He was more like a man who had left his bed in the middle of convalescence. A granddaughter of mine!’ The idiocy of this notion stuck in his craw and he could think of nothing else for a moment. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. His clothes were smartly pressed, his linen white, his jaws cleanly shaven; but the day would come when he would grow indifferent to bodily cleanliness.
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