Séverine had just put on her skis. “Ready?” She had on a man’s thick blue sweater but her body was so firm, so slim, that her impatient figure seemed not at all burdened. “Can’t be too careful with you in tow,” Pierre called back. “Darling, there’s absolutely no risk. The snow’s so clean it’ll be a pleasure to fall. Come on, let’s go.” Pierre straightened and swung lightly into the saddle. The horse didn’t move, didn’t so much as quiver. A powerful, placid animal with heavy flanks, it was used to pulling rather than being ridden. Séverine held tight to the grips on the long leashes attached to the harness, spread her feet a little. She was trying the sport for the first time, and concentration contracted her features a little. Because of this, her facial defects, which one usually didn’t notice, stood out: chin rather too square, cheekbones jutting. But Pierre loved absolute determination in Séverine’s face; to be able to watch it a moment longer, he pretended to be adjusting his stirrups.
