“You see, father,” she said, “it isn’t only this affair of the dance. She thought then that she had shaken off the man of the bulging blue eyes forever, but that night she found he followed her into her dreams. He made it more and more evident to her that her proper course was not to earn a salary but to accumulate equipment. She was still good at following orders. 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. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. Her thoughts were deflected from Vivie Warren by the peculiar behavior of a middle-aged gentleman in Piccadilly. Still —there you are!” He paused. ‘How disappointing,’ mourned Gerald. Secretly she was gratified to be assigned to the rôle of an old traveller.
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