And I think I must pursue my acquaintance with the fulsome Madame Valade. 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. “You’re still,” he said, “in the educational years. Still, I'm glad she didn't accept my invitation to join us. I wonder if a man can quite understand that passionate feeling? It is quite a passionate feeling.
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