" "It is," replied Jack. "He can't get out. Their flitting hands were always touching. 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. The house was redolent with the smells of cinnamon baking and the stuffed turkey and marinated pork roast.
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