Even in her hatred, she began to realize that Sebastian’s intelligence was much greater than Gianfrancesco’s. 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. It isn’t pretty, but we’re made so. It was locked.
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