It seemed like a bunch of sun-sparks, tiny
and orange in the midst of the snow-darkness. Behind, was a high shadow
of a peak, blotting out the stars, like a ghost.
They drew near to their home. They saw a man come from the dark
building, with a lighted lantern which swung golden, and made that his
dark feet walked in a halo of snow. He was a small, dark figure in the
darkened snow. He unlatched the door of an outhouse. A smell of cows,
hot, animal, almost like beef, came out on the heavily cold air. There
was a glimpse of two cattle in their dark stalls, then the door was
shut again, and not a chink of light showed. It had reminded Ursula
again of home, of the Marsh, of her childhood, and of the journey to
Brussels, and, strangely, of Anton Skrebensky.
Oh, God, could one bear it, this past which was gone down the abyss?
Could she bear, that it ever had been! She looked round this silent,
upper world of snow and stars and powerful cold. There was another
world, like views on a magic lantern; The Marsh, Cossethay, Ilkeston,
lit up with a common, unreal light.
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