He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. He held down the light, and a moment afterwards beckoned, with a blanched cheek, to Rowland. 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. The real ‘Alcide’,” she wound up with a faint smile across the table at him, “is here. “You may talk—if you can talk cheerfully, not unless.
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