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 wearing a becoming tea-gown, and it was quite certain that Sir John would not be home for several hours at least. It was an impulse. The doctor sensed that his bolt had gone wrong, but he could not tell how or why.
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