Her gratitude swelled within her. At Boulogne they took train to Basle; next morning they breakfasted together in the buffet of that station, and thence they caught the Interlaken express, and so went by way of Spies to Frutigen. The threadbare remainders of the dinner discussion hovered over the topics of obsessive fans of the science fiction and horror genres. You can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me—of that sort—worth a rap. She was like an angel with one wing.
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