Gina, the eleven year old, just couldn’t take it and she ran away. 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. Annabel shook her head. Indeed, it seemed inevitable that she must clear it up with his assistance, or not at all. “She told you that?” “Yes.
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