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. “If you must go on with it,” said Hetty, “now’s your time. ‘Thanks to him, Hilary and I nearly had our heads blown off. C. Oh, don't worry. . “It’s still a marvel to me that we are to be forgiven,” she said, turning.
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