My son went down after his death. 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. God knows how you did it. Analysis would come later, when the primitive conscience, satisfied, would cease to dominate his thought and action. “I am sorry for the way I acted, Lucy. ‘Is that why you allowed me in, ma’am?’ A dimple appeared in the faded cheek. He was human.
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