It could not be she who had done this. The clerk at the Raffles Hotel had accorded her but scant interest. 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. Then she was out of the door and running, fast. The reddish-haired young man contributed allusions to the Hegelian philosophy that momentarily confused the discussion. "Zounds!" cried Kneebone, furiously.
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