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. Was she so fearful still? Roding shrugged and grimaced. That was how she projected it, and in general terms it seemed plausible and possible.
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