" "Hold your tongue!" cried Mrs. 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. From the threshold she looked her accuser steadily and coldly in the face. This—all this swamps them. Don't feel fussed upon my account.
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