If they entered a shop, he paused by the doorway, as if waiting for the journey to be resumed. 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. Her name, he said, was as pretty as its wearer. If you don’t think it would be a social outrage, perhaps I might walk with you to your railway station. I’ve got too much work.
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