He understood now that it was a part of her inheritance. 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. That dress she has on—my mother might have worn it. “You see,” he said, “it is doubtful if we can ever marry.
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