CHAPTER THE NINTH DISCORDS Part 1 One afternoon, soon after Ann Veronica’s great discovery, a telegram came into the laboratory for 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. I might utter a million, and still I doubt if I could make you understand. "Don't look at it, I entreat," she cried. Pull yourself together, Annabel! I must have the truth. And let's see if either of these women, who prate of their love for you, will do as much. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. "What proof have you of the truth of this story?" inquired Trenchard. "You will spare the officers a labour then," rejoined Jonathan.
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