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Show 10 dimly see the pattern, like a web of veins seen only at times under pale, vulnerable, translucent skin. Hunt moved Leah on. He circled her out through the woods, around the deer, so that she would not see. Leah made no souW and gave no sign that she retained any present awareness of snow, rocks, branches, water, birds, clouds, of the world. Hunt brought her back. He could smell the fireplace smoke. He brought her in and sat her down. He took off her wet shoes and socks, put a pair of his own heavy socks on her feet. He built up the fire, pulled a couch over in front of it, laid her down, covered her up with her quilt. But she didn't sleep. She just lay there with her eyes open until night, when the children were both upstairs, and then she asked him if there had been any pleasant times. Hunt said yes; of course. He told her of them. He spoke in images: birds, water, light, branch patterns, shore, dogs, a farm. He used the colors buff, burnt sienna, white. "Thank you," Leah said, "Thank you." And they both slept. But before Hunt slept, he thought once again of Brueghel, his Hunters in the Snow, his Triumph of Death. And he wondered. |