’ ‘It could hardly be less so,’ said Mrs Sindlesham tartly. ‘Come on. He rested his brow on his hand and conveyed magnificent tragedy by his pose. 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. I will neither stir hand nor foot for you more.
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