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. "And the Marchioness is your daughter," added Thames. And yet, dang it! I've seen 'em just as innocent looking that were prime vipers.
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