He touched her hand, soft and cool to his fingers—she turned at once to look at him. 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. After five or six years it would not be difficult to hide in Italy or in France. Cathy sighed.
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