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She wished that the drive would never end, but it was only three miles after all. " "The very reason why I like him, Winny. “If I do,” he said. It was empty. 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. ’ ‘But where? Where has he gone? Always he goes off, and he says no word to anyone. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels.
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