“YOU wouldn’t like to be independent?” he asked, abruptly. ‘She won’t like it,’ prophesied the captain gloomily. ‘And you mean this? Truly?’ ‘Entirely. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. Part 2 Ann Veronica Stanley was twenty-one and a half years old. I'll remember that. 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 rested for a half hour in heaven on earth, feeling herself drift in and out of sleep.
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