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. My father died a year ago, by the way. They confronted each other, barely feet apart, neither apparently any longer aware of anyone else in the room. Frequently he would take up a box of talc and send a shower down his back, or fill his palms with the powder and rub his face and arms and hands.
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