The winter had set in earlier than usual. It was the beginning of November and already wet snow was scudding about, driven along by a storm. Sometimes it seemed as though the wind, rising after a breathing space, would smash the row of low houses and scatter their remains.

After George had gone off into the alcove, Mana stayed in the living room for another hour before she could bring herself to go to bed. She was too tired to do anything, and remained sitting at the table, staring in front of her. 

When there was a silence, Raimar's mother turned back to the mirror again. Raimar went to his bedroom with Philip. The atmosphere had grown tense. Raimar’s mother had been speaking for about an hour. In fact it was more like wailing.