Keep your eye upon the lad. No prisoner except Edgeworth Bess was placed in the same cell with him. 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. The likeness was ridiculous. Altogether different. Father-worshipping sons are abnormal— and they’re no good. If Ann Veronica could have put words to that song they would have been, “Hot-blooded marriage or none!” but she was far too indistinct in this matter to frame any words at all. There’s something—puppyish in a man’s usual attitude to women.
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