Ruth is not another man's wife; she is all your own, for better or for worse. 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. She came back with two women, one in each arm, which she threw down like sticks as she alit onto the stone causeway. "You have always been, far dearer to me than myself," replied Mrs. Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once.
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