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The Wastrel did not relish this. He wiped the sweat from his chin and forehead. At Boulogne they took train to Basle; next morning they breakfasted together in the buffet of that station, and thence they caught the Interlaken express, and so went by way of Spies to Frutigen. “And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently.
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