Once she stopped in front of a mirror and looked at herself thoughtfully. ‘Eh bien, Eugénie. You know Martin, right? He’s that beautiful half-Chinese boy that skipped a grade and has an I. “Hand me the Jergens lotion, will you? How’d it go with John?” She asked. 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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