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. Clotilde rushed out of the house, carrying her boy and tugging her girl by the ear. She would never again be lonely. Help—should she need it—from the natives was out of the question. Who were you looking for tonight? One of the émigrés? There were several in there.
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