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. Never was heard such a bawling as these unfortunate wights kept up. Besides, you cannot visit people armed with a pistol in London, you know. “It was just an hour before teatime,” she remarked.
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