“You poor little girl!” he cried. 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. As she came close, he took a pace forward and seized her from behind, one
strong arm clamping her tight against his chest, the free hand seizing her about
the mouth, stifling the cry that gurgled in her throat. “You must come and see me some afternoon,” she said to him. "This locket," he said, taking a little ornament attached to a black ribband from
his breast, and giving it her,—"do you remember it?"
"I do—I do!" cried Winifred. I said
intensity of perception.
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This video was uploaded to damaulifm.org on 27-06-2024 17:59:24