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 was not a reversion to type, which intimates the primordial; she suggested rather the incarnation of some goddess of the South Seas. Both of them would be committing novel and unforgettable acts.
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