She was sorry for his liking her too much for his own good, but her need was too desperate to cavil at turning it to useful account. I suppose that shocks one’s ideas. 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.
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