‘The credentials, milor’,’ he ventured. 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. All the same, I wish I had that fellow by the throat! Just the virile, unregenerate man in me wishes that.
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