Even the stars were strangers. “Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. " "You, Miss Enschede?"—frankly astonished that one stranger should offer succour to another. A distant suggestion of chalets and a glimpse of the road set them talking for a time of the world they had left behind. Conceiving himself called upon, as the intimate friend of the deceased, to pay this last tribute of respect to her memory, he appeared as one of the chief mourners.
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