“It was my sister Anna. Ann Veronica sat down in the other arm-chair and darned badly for a minute or so. "I suspect our friend has thought better of it, and won't come," he remarked. As a net result she had come to think of all married people much as one thinks of insects that have lost their wings, and of her sisters as new hatched creatures who had scarcely for a moment had wings. Habits and tastes are no longer the same. 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. ‘You can if you like.
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