At least, you are one, and I am disguised like one. 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. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. "She has," rejoined Sheppard. She would write to Gerald. There must be something behind the missioner's actions, something of which the girl knew nothing nor suspected.
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