Overjoyed beyond measure at having vanquished this apparently-insurmountable obstacle, Jack darted through the door. “She must go her own way. She was an indignant queen, no doubt she was alarmed and disgusted within limits; but she was highly excited, and there was something, some low adventurous strain in her being, some element, subtle at least if base, going about the rioting ways and crowded insurgent meeting-places of her mind declaring that the whole affair was after all—they are the only words that express it—a very great lark indeed. She located her foster family. "Yes," replied Jack. “You MUST,” he said, “because of my depression. She laughed nervously, but kept her eyes averted. 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. “Number 13, please, cabman. If Jack should die, all though her fault, she could never forgive herself. And there's your liver. They’re all wonderful cooks. Jack Kimble.
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