It isn’t law, nor custom, nor masculine violence settled that. 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. She would just have to show up and hope for the best. “Annabel,” she said brusquely. For a long time to come that would naturally be the theme of any story he undertook to write. She was obliged to concede that his features were pleasing, his strength and vitality attractive; and there was no denying how well this uniform of a militia suited his figure, which was lean and powerful both.
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