’ *** In the cosy little parlour that Pottiswick rarely used, Melusine paced restlessly to and fro. They talked lightly but confidentially until Sir John approached them with a slight frown upon his face. Yet there was nothing for her to do. Already the warm sun was drawing from the pines their delicious odour. 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.
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