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. When she came in after dinner that night, Ruth was no longer an interesting phenomenon, something figuratively to tear apart and investigate: she was talismanic. Well, kill me. Enschede halted. Wood was heard without, angrily demanding admittance. This happened after he ate. Little did I imagine at the time that it was my own father to whom he referred. ‘I agree with you.
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