Through yet another doorway she observed an ancient silk brocade loom. “Maybe I should have stayed home. “It is too late for visitors,” she remarked. O'Higgins eyed it thoughtfully. She is English, and apparently in some distress. 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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