I want to put my hand out and touch you. I want to do for you and care for you. I want to be there when you're sick and when you're lonesome.
They seemed to come suddenly upon happiness as if they had surprised a butterfly in the winter woods.
He seemed a part of the mute melancholy landscape, an incarnation of it's frozen woe, with all that was warm and sentient in him fast bound below the surface; but there was nothing nothing unfriendly in his silence. I simply felt that he lived in a depth of moral isolation too remote for casual access, and I had the sense that his loneliness was not merely the result of his personal plight, tragic as I guessed that to be, but had in it, as Harmon Gow had hinted, the profound accumulated cold of many Starkfield winters.
She had taken everything else from him, and now she meant to take the one thing that made up for it all.
But at sunset the clouds gathered again, bringing an earlier night, and the snow began to fall straight and steadily from a sky without wind, in a soft universal diffusion more confusing than the gusts and eddies of the morning. It seemed to be a part of the thickening darkness, to be the winter night itself descending on us layer by layer.
They stood together in the gloom of the spruces, an empty world glimmering about them wide and gray under the stars.
She pronounced the word married as if her voice caressed it. It seemed a rustling covert leading to enchanted glades.