They were talking of “Alcide,” as they often did in those days. Here was not the individual against whom she had been warned. 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. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify.
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