He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. ‘Doesn’t she, Gerald?’ Gerald held up his hands. Spurlock stared at Ruth across the rim of his bowl. “Too late, my dear girl,” she exclaimed. 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. Except for the dull eyes and the extreme pallor of his face, there was nothing else to indicate that he was deep in liquor.
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