It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. Indeed, she did not want to think of him as loving her. " "Vot o' that?" chuckled Abraham. In the artificial light her skin had the tint and lustre of a yellow pearl. New customs have prevailed over the old. 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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