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. Captain Hilary Roding and his inamorata, Miss Lucilla Froxfield. He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket. She could not help but swoon a little. She warmed to him fast, her anger was much harder to carry than the pleasant everyday neutrality of affection.
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