Perhaps she might never come back to that breakfast-room again. But never had the hand touched her with a father's caress; never had he taken her into his arms; never had he kissed her. 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. Work becomes distasteful; one thinks of holidays. He was not able to recognize, as the doctor did, that she was only a natural woman.
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