"There's the house," said Jack, pointing to a pretty cottage, the small wooden porch of which was covered with roses and creepers, with a little trim garden in front of it. Get on with it, then. 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. I sometimes laid away my father's clothes in his trunk. Stanley pointed to the letter with a pipe he had drawn from his jacket pocket.
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