So here is your chance, Mademoiselle Charvill. But never would any so dishonour himself as to hand a fellow rogue over to the authorities. She drifted northward from the Strand, and came on some queer and dingy quarters. 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. It makes no difference.
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