Melusine, used to the stark surroundings of the convent at Blaye, had no complaint to make. 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 could feel his breath on her skin, every hair on her arms and neck raised in response.
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