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. Wood in a sharp tone. Then she shrugged. ‘They cannot be worse than mine in English, monsieur. The only mercy you can show me is to kill me. “Dear old daddy!” she said, and was amazed to find herself shedding tears. Somebody tricked you back yonder—baited you for spite.
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