It was hard to part with romance, but she had never thirsted so keenly to go on with her University work in her life as she did that day. 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. . He stabbed into her with brute force. The flowers and turf, a wild strawberry, a rare butterfly, and suchlike little intimate things had become more interesting than mountains. “My dear Annabel,” she said, “this is delightful, but I thought that it was forbidden. Then for the first time she was conscious of an unaccountable and terrifying sensation. The metrical irregularity is intentional, because I want, as it were, to put you apart: to change the lilt and the mood altogether when I speak of you. She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork. Good-bye, aunt.
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