There was a lock, apparently more than a foot wide, strongly plated, and girded to the door with thick iron hoops. “It isn’t fair. Forgive me. She removed it. 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.
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