Spinning Dust

About this book

WINTER . . . a bitter, relentless cold lying heavy upon the slopes and eddying thick in the hollows; leafless limbs reaching upward toward grey skies, like the scarred fingers of hands raised in prayer; white-locked farms huddling in half forsaken valleys; an occasional gaunt chateau standing back against the hills, dark, lonely, as some strange bird of ill omen might stand awaiting the hunter's kill; frozen highways winding away through thin forests to a dead sky-line, with only now and again the crunch of hoofs in the snow and the far jingle of droshky bells.