" "You had better take some refreshment before you start," rejoined Wild. They agreed to lend her their hold-all and a large, formless bag which they called the communal trunk. Even this man-hunting machine was willing to grant the boy his honeymoon. She held out her arms to him and smiled. 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. Her mouth was an effective tourniquet. “Eight, Cavendish Square.
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