But it must have been something that could show her to be Mary’s daughter. ’ ‘It is so in a convent, you see,’ she explained airily. Their journey had made them indolent, the afternoon was warm, and it seemed impossible to breathe a sweeter air. 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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