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. Ruth was something to study for future copy; she was almost unbelievable. “I hope that you are going to allow me to see something of you during your stay in London, for the sake of old times. ’ *** The tapping for which Melusine had been waiting came at last.
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