E. 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. The next hour makes, or mars you for ever. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. “Some afternoon. You don't notice the heat; but it is always there, pressing down. Austin, or any man of similar dimensions, would have found wholly impossible.
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