Mildred Montag

"Her face was like a snow-covered island upon which rain might fall, but it felt like rain; over which clouds might pass their moving shadows, but she felt no shadow. There was only the singing of the thimble-wasp in her tampered-shut ears, and her eyes all glass, and breath going in and out, softly, faintly, in and out her nostrils, and her not caring whether it came or went, went or came"