It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. 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. ‘You cannot be André Valade if you tell them I am one of this family. “Mr.
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