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. “Yes,” she said, “that is what we ought to do. “You’re mad, Sebastianus. He had saluted her with elaborate civility, his eyes distended with indecipherable meanings. ‘When I thought to make them sympathique for me, with a little tear, you understand, and some tricks feminine of this kind—’ ‘Feminine tricks, too?’ cut in Gerald admiringly, controlling a quivering lip. There are boats on the lake and shady depths and wildernesses of pine-wood. She was fiercely and bitterly jealous. There is the election——” He laughed derisively.
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