His deduction was correct that the beauty of Ruth Enschede could not remain hidden long even on a forgotten isle. 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. Winifred instantly picked it up. “I’ll go. " She had no reason to doubt him. “Why not? It might amuse me. “What were you doing outside Miss Pellissier’s flat to-night? You were looking at her windows. “My dear child,” he said, “with me you need have no apprehension.
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