She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. He looked just like John Wayne in a cowboy movie, his eyes narrow and squinting, except his hair was long, unruly, and jet black. 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 told you that?” “Yes. You should have confided in me, and fallen in with my plan at the beginning.
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