’ The lady uttered a scornful sound. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. 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. “Agreed,” he said with queer exaltation, and his grip tightened on her hand.
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