’ ‘And your precious vicomte didn’t wish for the English one,’ said Charvill, acid in his voice. 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. The infant’s body, now missing its pulverized head, was still twitching among the blood-soaked ruins of corpses. The daughters, he had hoped, would be their mother’s care.
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