She could get a better measure of it now, although its top portion was concealed under a visor of cloud.
Other parts of it were entirely free from fog. It was incredible.
You see a picture of a glacier on TV or in a magazine and you see a smooth lump of white.
But this was as textured as a mountain. Black-brown and white.
And there were infinite varieties of that white, a whole visual smorgasbord of variation –
white-white, blue-white, turquoise-white, gold-white, silver-white, translucent-white –
rendered glaringly alive and impressive. Certainly more impressive than the breakfast.
“Depressing, isn’t it?” Hugo said. “What?” “The fact that the day never ends.”
Nora felt uneasy with this observation. “In what sense?” He waited a second before responding.
“The never-ending light,” he said, before taking a bite of a dry cracker. “From April on.”
“It’s like living one interminable day... I hate that feeling.” “Tell me about it.”
“You’d think they’d give the portholes curtains. Hardly slept since I’ve been on this boat.” Nora nodded.
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