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. “So am I the jewel or the bug inside?” He smiled. As he crossed the cellar, he passed so near to Jack who had concealed himself behind a piece of furniture that he almost touched him. Old Kesterton, choleric-looking individual nearly opposite, will curse the cooking till he’s black in the face, but he never misses a dinner. He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek.
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