She reached for the door handle. ‘The major will tell you when to stop. . The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. Sebastian traveled at seventy, eighty, then one-hundred down the freeway. He disappeared and she was finally convicted for past child abuse, but because she was diagnosed as schizophrenic they put her in a state mental ward instead of jail. 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. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose.
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