So, at least, thought one of two persons who were seated together in a small back-parlour of the house at Dollis Hill. 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. “Your brother has gone?” she asked Sydney, between the courses. Nevertheless there came a residuum of expostulations. The lights rolled over, and were extinguished.
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