It towered up high above the level of the pass, thousands of feet, still, shining, and white, and below, thousands of feet below, was a floor of little woolly clouds. Jack, meanwhile, heard, the shouts, and, though alarmed by them, held on a steady course. He seemed years younger, and the arrangement of his tie and hair were almost rakish. Oh! my dear, dear son, be warned in time. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate.
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