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Updated: May 23, 2025
"Smoke, Sophie, my dear," he said quickly, trying to make his voice calm and natural. "I see it, yes. It's smoke blowing over from the gardener's cottage...." "But, David," and there was a new horror in her whisper now "it made a noise. It makes it still. I hear it swishing." Some such word she used swishing, sishing, rushing, or something of the kind. "David, I'm very frightened.
The sishing of the ski through the powdery surface of the snow was the only sound that broke the stillness; this, with his breathing and the rustle of her skirts, was all he heard. Cold moonshine, snow, and silence held the world. The sky was black, and the peaks beyond cut into it like frosted wedges of iron and steel. Far below the valley slept, the village long since hidden out of sight.
Already the mass was settling, and the surface freezing into those moss-like, powdery crystals that make the ski run almost of their own accord with the faint "sishing" as of a bird's wings through the air. That night there was excitement in the little hotel-world, first because there was a bal costume, but chiefly because the new snow had come.
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