The comtesse always felt Madame Valade to be not of her class, of course. She had even played in an opera by Verdi once, but had to dress as a boy to do it. “Quite an unimportant one,” he assured 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. There were moments when Ann Veronica rather more than suspected the chief speakers to be, as school-boys say, showing off at her. And Anna was conscious of a few moments of exquisite emotion.
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