“The day, a compunctious Sunday after a week of blizzards, had been part
jewel, part mud. In the midst of my usual afternoon stroll through the
small hilly town attached to the girls' college where I taught French
literature, I had stopped to watch a family of brilliant icicles
drip-dripping from the eaves of a frame house. So clear-cut were their
pointed shadows on the white boards behind them that I was sure the
shadows of the falling drops should be visible too. But they were not.”
Vladimir Nabokov - The Vane Sisters
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