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. She closed her eyes and felt again an echo of the swamping warmth that had attacked her when his lips met hers. ‘And so also have I. “Begin violence, and the woman goes under. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is.
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