\" Diane Vorsack chirped with the grin of a Cheshire Cat, extending her right hand in greeting. “Showtime!” Martin cried. There was first the Avenue, which ran in a consciously elegant curve from the railway station into an undeveloped wilderness of agriculture, with big, yellow brick villas on either side, and then there was the pavement, the little clump of shops about the postoffice, and under the railway arch was a congestion of workmen’s dwellings. 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. Filled as he was with conflicting emotions, any stretch of silence would be dangerous. She addressed him in a tone of puzzlement. Yes, it was Manningtree really secured your father.
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