” He pointed to Ennison, who in his turn looked across at Anna. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. 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. Trodger laid down their muskets and turned on them. ‘You imbecile. I felt—I felt living in a masked world. And nearly all these things were fearfully ill-paid. They were in many respects so right; she clung to that, and shirked more and more the paradoxical conviction that they were also somehow, and even in direct relation to that rightness, absurd.
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