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 mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. Suddenly he burst into wild laughter; but equally as suddenly something strangled the sound in his throat. Her cheeks were the colour of chalk, her eyes were filled with terror. It was eleven o'clock.
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