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. “And aren’t there fees to pay at the Imperial College?” her aunt was saying—a disagreeable question. Her whole face stiffened with suppressed anger. Men of action by the scarlet coats with their grey facings—insignia of the county militia.
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