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. “Do you play an instrument?” “I play the fiddle sometimes. Why didn’t I die? Why does God hate me so? Why does He not want me? I didn’t die because I’m weak, because I am cursed! I hate this poisoned world! But most of all. ” “Martin, it’s a monumental achievement for any composer. Can you afford to give this time? There are your own affairs to think of. But she could see that Diane watched her more closely now, and in a cat-like way.
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