To have written a short story in a week was rather a remarkable feat. After the usual laconic greetings, he drew him on one side. 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. “MY DEAR FATHER,” she wrote,—“I have been thinking hard about everything since I was sent to this prison.
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