Independent People by Halldor Laxness

CONTINUAL rain.

Asta Sollilja, busy cooking, had taken off her wet things and laid them to dry on the hot range. The steam was rising from them, and she was cutting the fish ready for the pan, barefooted, in a tattered old slip, and the bubbles were just beginning to rise when suddenly she heard something on the move down below: the door opened, a footstep sounded in the stalls, the ladder creaked, the hatch was lifted, and a man stepped up on to the floor and looked about him. He was wearing a sou'wester. His coat was long and strong, fitted with collars, flaps, tabs, and buttons; the rain that could penetrate such a garment was non-existent. He wore high waterproof boots, his blue eyes were clear and kind. He said good-morning. She did not dare to say good-morning; she said nothing. She usually gave her hand in silence when anyone greeted her, but this man did not offer to shake hands. She had thought that he had looked so very slim and youthful the first time that she had seen him, but in this tiny room he and his huge coat assumed such bulky proportions that she was afraid that he would bump his head on the roof. The old woman did not reply to his greeting either, but she stopped knitting and tried to focus her peering eyes on him. With him he had a string of trout and string of barnacle geese.