. He got off at Canal, and she exited behind the crowd. Her hair touched water, becoming like the seaweed in its velvet slickness. . He laughed once or twice at himself as he paced backwards and forwards. Griffin. 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. Perhaps, she may tell me whose picture this is. His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti. But it was of no avail. He would always see the picture of the huge, raw-boned Dutchman, haranguing and thundering the word of God into the dull ears of South Sea Islanders, who, an hour later, would be carrying fruit penitently to their wooden images. ‘Of course I see that,’ she said impatiently.
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