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. Sir John, by instinct and training, was an unimaginative person. Everybody seemed greatly concerned about the sincerity of Tolstoy. Papa has sent me to be religieuse. At the end of two long lines of foot-guards stood the cart with a powerful black horse harnessed to it.
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