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. I love you still, Anna, but life holds other things than the love of man for woman. With a well-simulated unconcern and a heightened color she finished her breakfast. He hanged your first husband. My garden-close would be a better thing than that.
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