Not fit to be dust on your boots. 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. “I had a dream in the night,” she said. “G. ‘I ain’t done nothing wrong, I swear it. ‘Come on, Hilary. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety.
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