155 The ringing doorbell jarred her from her stupor. 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. I don’t know why that should be so acutely humiliating. “To the view that all women ought to have votes whether they like it or not.
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