She found no ready reply to that, and he went on: “This music is the food of love. “And aren’t there fees to pay at the Imperial College?” her aunt was saying—a disagreeable question. She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself. 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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