‘By traitors I am surrounded!’ ‘Stop talking utter twaddle,’ ordered Roding, marching up to the desk. And if she is not a nun, nor a refugee, and yet is entirely English, I’m hanged if I know what she is. 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’t! I tell you frankly you may break off your engagement to me—I shall hold myself still engaged to you, yours just the same.
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