“I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. As he pocketed it, her open palm reached out and slapped his cheek. I have tried not to tell you—tried to be simply your friend. 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. ‘And me, I am a lady. “Morning, Mom. These little squares of coloured paper interested her mightily—hotel labels.
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