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. ‘Beg your pardon, ma’am, but she’s enough to try the patience of a saint. ‘I’ll make you an offer. “Do you think you’ll ever get married, Lucy?” Lucy shifted uncomfortably as she pulled her makeshift nightgown—an old T-shirt—over her head. They had been so considerate of the earth they had touched that they barely left a footprint. It is no crime, none at all.
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