I get along with my Mom sometimes, Lucy. 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. Wood. “Do not look so uncomfortable, both of you,” she begged. The doctor said you wrote.
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