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Shari was snoring soundly. “Have you dropped from the skies?” Sydney asked wonderingly. He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes. Most people, every one I know else, seem to have mated with foreigners and to talk uneasily in unfamiliar tongues, to be afraid of the knowledge the other one has, of the other one’s perpetual misjudgment and misunderstandings. 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. ” She shivered. CHAPTER XI.
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