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 can’t imagine what possessed you, Veronica. It was common name, so I was thrown off the scent. I am an independent sort of person,” she continued, “and I am engaged in an attempt to earn my own living. What is your father's business?" The question was an impertinence, but Ruth was not aware of that. “It’s his birthday. I'll think no more about her.
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