Always as black and bitter as gall. 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. Crouching down, Gerald waited, hands at the ready. The windows were still darkened—perhaps she was not home yet. “Dear friend,” she said, “this is a matter which you must leave to me to do as I think best. I was always told my mother died the day I was born. ‘It is pretty.
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