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. Don’t think it was anything better than fever—or a bit beautiful. The fever came. Her wedding gown! She wondered if the spirit of the unknown mother looked down upon her.
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