“Poor little Élise,” he murmured.
“Was she small—_petite_?” I asked. He jerked up his head.
“No,” he said. “Rather tall.”
“Taller than your wife, I suppose.”
Again he looked into my eyes. And then once more he went into a loud
burst of laughter that made the still, snow-deserted valley clap again.
“God, it’s a knockout!” he said, thoroughly amused. Then he stood at
ease, one foot out, his hands in his breeches pockets, in front of him,
his head thrown back, a handsome figure of a man.
“But I’ll do that blasted Joey in—” he mused.