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. It may be treacherous, it may lay up a store of future woe; but it insures present happiness, and that is sufficient. Then for a time she forgot the Fadden affair altogether. Only Gwen left a letter on the pincushion.
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