" "For whom, Sir?" inquired Charcam. In the rush of commuters he did not see her boarding his train. 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. To be complete, my vengeance must be tardy. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, after a long interval, “if they are absurd. He felt that he was getting on with her very slowly indeed, but he did not see how he could get on faster.
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