"Von't you hear me?—ough! ough!" demanded Sharples, after a pause. Wood's reply, if he intended any, was cut short by a loud knocking at the door. 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. She observed a man walking on the opposite side of the way and looking toward her.
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