And he found what he desired, a perfect long, fierce sweep,
sheering past the foot of a rock and into the trees at the base. It was
dangerous, he knew. But then he knew also he would direct the sledge
between his fingers.
The first days passed in an ecstasy of physical motion, sleighing,
skiing, skating, moving in an intensity of speed and white light that
surpassed life itself, and carried the souls of the human beings beyond
into an inhuman abstraction of velocity and weight and eternal, frozen
snow.
Gerald's eyes became hard and strange, and as he went by on his skis he
was more like some powerful, fateful sigh than a man, his muscles
elastic in a perfect, soaring trajectory, his body projected in pure
flight, mindless, soulless, whirling along one perfect line of force.
Luckily there came a day of snow, when they must all stay indoors:
otherwise Birkin said, they would all lose their faculties, and begin
to utter themselves in cries and shrieks, like some strange, unknown
species of snow-creatures.
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