It happened that at the extremest point of Ann Veronica’s social circle from the Widgetts was the family of the Morningside Park horsedealer, a company of extremely dressy and hilarious young women, with one equestrian brother addicted to fancy waistcoats, cigars, and facial spots. 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. ‘That is better, no?’ ‘Dieu. You simply can’t. Anyhow, ten minutes after I get to work I'll be rumpling it. She gave her lips to his without resistance. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. The sea was no longer rolling brass; it was bluer than anything he had ever seen. “We won’t.
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