Peste, where was her handkerchief? She remembered then that it had been lost in the struggle with Gerald. 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. It seemed to make her sister downcast beyond any precedent. “Women would—they DO have far more power than they think, as influences, as inspirations. The doctor said you wrote. .
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