A wild passion of shame and self-disgust swept over her. He hated horizons. She hated tricking Shari, whose joy for life was the only thing that made her naive enough to fall for laced iced tea or hot cocoa, depending on the season. “Women know these things by instinct,” she answered. For ten years I've been trying to go home, but my conscience will not permit me, I hate the Orient. This roof is still open to you. 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. Grace à Leonardo, she could defend herself now! Gosse was still attempting to manhandle the door, when she turned the key and wrenched it open. A wedding procession turned the corner.
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