The lake was cold, black, evil, no more than five hundred yards in length,
scarcely two hundred in breadth, a crooked stretch of glassy calm shadowed by
the mountainsides that slipped steeply into its dark waters and went plunging
down. There were no roads, no marked paths around it; only a few tracks,
narrow ribbons, wound crazily along its high sides, sometimes climbing up and
around the rough crags, sometimes dropping to the sparse clumps of fir at its
water line. The eastern tip of the lake was closed off by a ridge of precipices.
The one approach was by its western end. Here, the land eased away into
gentler folds, forming a stretch of fine alpine grass strewn with pitted boulders
and groups of more firs. This was where the trail, branching up from the rough
road that linked villages and farms on the lower hills, ended in a bang and a
whimper: a view of forbidding grandeur and a rough wooden table with two
benches where the summer visitor could eat his hard-boiled eggs and caraway-
sprinkled ham sandwiches.
具體描述
讀後感
評分
評分
評分
評分
用戶評價
相關圖書
本站所有內容均為互聯網搜索引擎提供的公開搜索信息，本站不存儲任何數據與內容，任何內容與數據均與本站無關，如有需要請聯繫相關搜索引擎包括但不限於百度，google,bing,sogou 等
© 2025 book.quotespace.org All Rights Reserved. 小美書屋 版权所有