If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. She was as fair as the lily of the lotus. "There's a guinea to drink our health," she added, slipping a piece of money into his hand. 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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