But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back. 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. I suppose if one were to love some one, one would feel doubtful.
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