Jack Kimble nodded eagerly. ‘What is this proof?’ ‘I will not tell you. She dreaded living off the land again, like an animal, as she had done for dozens of years at a stretch. Nor my grandfathers both. She ignored his question. The office is a sight—not one sheet of paper on another; bills and receipts everywhere. The bedding was removed; Mrs. I don’t. Oh, they are married fast. 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 heard only after it was all over. But it was her proof.
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