She is called Madame Ibstock, you understand. 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. Ralph. Her mind went on generalizing. Once a sick sailor drew three pictures for me and set down every stay and brace and sail—square-rigger, schooner, and sloop.
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