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. Her usual dignified reserve had availed her nothing. “Look round the table,” she said. She went from period to period exactly as she would have read prose; so that sense and music were equally balanced.
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