She had pushed aside her azure veil, taken off her snow-glasses, and sat smiling under her hand at the shining glories—the lit cornices, the blue shadows, the softly rounded, enormous snow masses, the deep places full of quivering luminosity—of the Taschhorn and Dom. Some of their specimens—wonderfully selected, wonderfully got up. “Too late, my dear girl,” she exclaimed. We are expecting a visit from Sir John Ferringhall at any moment. All right! I’m off.
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