They came forth at last in a little high table-land of snow, where
stood the last peaks of snow like the heart petals of an open rose. In
the midst of the last deserted valleys of heaven stood a lonely
building with brown wooden walls and white heavy roof, deep and
deserted in the waste of snow, like a dream. It stood like a rock that
had rolled down from the last steep slopes, a rock that had taken the
form of a house, and was now half-buried. It was unbelievable that one
could live there uncrushed by all this terrible waste of whiteness and
silence and clear, upper, ringing cold.
Yet the sledges ran up in fine style, people came to the door laughing
and excited, the floor of the hostel rang hollow, the passage was wet
with snow, it was a real, warm interior.
The new-comers tramped up the bare wooden stairs, following the serving
woman. Gudrun and Gerald took the first bedroom. In a moment they found
themselves alone in a bare, smallish, close-shut room that was all of
golden-coloured wood, floor, walls, ceiling, door, all of the same warm
gold panelling of oiled pine.
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