No.

I do not think there is anything more.

If there is, the coolies have thrown it down the khud, so thatt is all right.
Now you go too.' He repacked the kilta with all he meant to lose, and hove it up on to the windowsill.

A thousand feet below lay a long, lazy, round-shouldered bank of mist, as yet untouched by the morning sun.

A thousand feet below that was a hundred-year-old pine-forest.
He could see the green tops looking like a bed of moss when a wind-eddy thinned the cloud.
'No! I don't think any one will go after you!' The wheeling basket vomited its contents as it dropped.