She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. “Indeed, I must implore you to return. Try something. But of what avail is this? You have no execution, no finish. 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. Brendon was silent. “It was your own fault,” she exclaimed. A spot of colour, brighter than any rouge, burned on her cheeks. A mate? A brother-lover to tromp about the world with? “I cannot.
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