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. The winter of 1348 seemed to last an eternity, but the Pestilence struck in one day. That is the dreadful truth. It had been her home for hundreds of years.
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