She tiptoed to the stand and gathered up the manuscripts which she carried to a chair by the window. 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. Rhea’s head exploded into a spray of blood, brain, and bone. At the cost of quite a number of torn drafts she succeeded in evolving this: “DEAR MR. “I will not ask you to explain further.
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