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 air was sharp and bracing, and the leaves which had taken their autumnal tints were falling from the trees. But before the Grieg concerto was done, she knew that she was free. "Mr.
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