Here again instinct guided her. And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it. 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. Mother had met with him two years before to begin the process of finding a match. It would have been better had he succeeded in murdering her, she thought.
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