So, step by step, and hurt by hurt, Ruth was learning that John Smith was John Smith and nobody else. “She will take her risk,” she answered. 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.
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