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. She found she was trembling at his nearness and full of a thrilling dread that he might touch her. Thames did not try to cheer her. Meet me. Walpole's order to that effect—but not before.
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