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. For that such a man does not mind about the dowry, he must be in love en désespoir. She would meet him upon this ground: he should never be given the slightest hint that she was unhappy. As they passed beneath the thick trees that shade the road to Dollis Hill, the gloom was almost impenetrable.
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