” “You, then,” he said, “are ‘Alcide. Strewn across the bed was a multitude of jumbled garments. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. 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 would have twice the problems that I have currently. An ancient smile lay on his lips. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts.
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