From the Country Club steps the roads stretched away, dark creases on the white blanket; huge heaps of snow lining the sides like the tracks of giant moles.

They lingered for a moment on the steps, and watched the white holiday moon.
"Pale moons like that one"-- Amory made a vague gesture--"make people mysterieuse.

You look like a young witch with her cap off and her hair sorta mussed"-- her hands clutched at her hair--"Oh, leave it, it looks _good_." They drifted up the stairs and Myra led the way into the little den of his dreams, where a cosy fire was burning before a big sink-down couch.
A few years later this was to be a great stage for Amory, a cradle for many an emotional crisis.

Now they talked for a moment about bobbing parties.
"There's always a bunch of shy fellas," he commented, "sitting at the tail of the bob, sorta lurkin' an' whisperin' an' pushin' each other off.

Then there's always some crazy cross-eyed girl"-- he gave a terrifying imitation--"she's always talkin' _hard_, sorta, to the chaperon." "You're such a funny boy," puzzled Myra.
"How d'y' mean ?" Amory gave immediate attention, on his own ground at last.
"Oh--always talking about crazy things.