Those that
fall into the water disappear like shooting stars, leaving no trace
behind.
The glass roof of my bedroom is as heavy as a coffin-lid. I sleep with
my window open, and when there comes a blast of wind my eyes are filled
with snow. This morning, when I woke, my pillow-case was as wet as
though I had been crying all night.
Torp already sees us in imagination snowed up and receiving our food
supplies down the chimney. She is preparing for the occasion. Her hair
smells as though she had been singeing chickens, and she has
illuminated the basement with small lamps and red shades edged with
pearl fringes.
Jeanne is equally enchanted. When she goes outside without a hat her
hair looks like a burning torch against the snow. She does not speak,
but hums to herself, and walks more lightly and softly than ever, as
though she feared to waken some sleeper.
... I remember how Malthe and I were once talking about Greece, and he
gave me an account of a snowstorm in Delphi.
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