“I have made over seven hundred pounds in the last week,” he said. Lucy felt a finger tap her on the bra strap as she observed Michelle chatting with yet another passing group of people. 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.
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