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“An Oracle you are! Sebastian never told me he’d made one!” Rhea screamed a scream that was part horror and part laughter. Trodger was lying in wait at the bottom of the narrow stairs. 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.

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