The bitter cold of winter hangs over Cookham , like icicles of iron, like  dagger icicles  hanging from the willow trees over the freezing, beaver brown, river Thames.
Silver Serpent wakes up after another  freezing night.

“As I lie in bed with my freezing toes and crimson  nose, my breath looks like the thundery clouds over our village, heavy with rain,  snow,  or,  maybe, the terrible  fire and brimstone of the Bible (1)

My wolf skin cover may keep wolves warm at night,  but not me.
When Prioress Wilfrida reads from the bible  every Sunday morning, in the dark, holy Abbey, I  fear the power and wrath of God. Or is his son, our Lord Jesus, going to save us all from our sins, and whose face is so sad and merciful on the cross in the apse of our solemn Abbey,