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. The shot had taken effect upon the waterman who rowed the chase. His attitude was as different from Gianfrancesco’s as night was from day. He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute. 235 “No, I think she’s out sick with a throat infection. They all left the room. You DO use vile language!” “Forget about it like this.
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