It ought never to have begun. 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. Annabel was conscious then of the slow anger which had been burning within her since the night of her visit to the “Unusual. He probably imagines himself to be a thousand times worse off than he actually is.
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