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. Easy enough. “I will take a carriage,” she said, “and fetch my things. ‘And if not her, for she is dead, then me.
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