1. The dress came to her only too manifestly unwashed from its former wearer; even the under-linen they gave her seemed unclean. All her life Martha had been there. 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 won’t go home,” she said; “I won’t!” and she evaded the clutch of the fatherly policeman and tried to thrust herself past him in the direction of that big portal. And for many years, that was the way it was. Before very long I hope to have definite work.
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