Out of an old family album: here was the very comparison that had eluded him. 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. Diane spooned warm apple-rhubarb pie onto the girl’s plates, topping each with scoops of ice cream. The wounded man had descended the bridge, and dashed himself against the door beyond it; but, finding it impossible to force his way further, he turned to confront his assailants. ‘Good God! Everett Charvill, as I live.
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