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. ‘Because you are a bête, and a pig, and imbecile. But, alas! she was beautiful—and beauty is a crime not to be forgiven by a jealous woman. “I think,” she said, “that I would rather not have anything to say about that man.
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