" He shifted the pages together, rolled and thrust them under her arm. Perhaps I deceived you about it. 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. ‘Jacques?’ she called out, forgetting the need for silence. gutenberg.
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