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. “Shut up, you little faggot. Wood lifted up his hands in mute despair. “I think, aunt,” she said, “you might trust to my self-respect to keep me out of that. For a long time she surveyed a row of towering holly-hocks, as though they offered an explanation.
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