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 could see that he was curious, so she sat upon him and they rocked back and forth. She breathed into a cloth soaked in rose oil as Sebastian had prescribed, but the smell of roses mixed obscenely with the smell of death and decay, causing her to retch. With delicate touch he rescued all that was possible of them, and made a careful little parcel. “I have a letter for you, and no end of messages.
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