Under the Glacier by Halldór Laxness

The undersigned picked up the seal from the veranda, put it in his pocket, and rang the doorbell. The woman came to the door. She had fetched her things from the car during the night and was now wearing an ankle-length dressing gown. She looked bigger than yesterday. If it's possible to call a face strongly built, it could be said of this woman; but the expression was without arrogance; no affectation in her demeanour, but her responses could be unpredictable. It cannot be denied that I couldn't tear my eyes away from an individual of the breed that was thought to be exceptional flesh here at Glacier, descended from Ireland and Spain. It's these women who never sleep. Now when I saw the woman again, scantily clad under her dressing gown, she seemed to confirm the theory that women do not attain the beauty that appealed to Stone Age man in accordance with the Willendorf Venus recipe until they are about fifty and have had their children and lost them, with a new era before them. The bishop's emissary said good morning.

Woman: San Juan de la Cruz! She opened the door wide and let me in and closed it. Then she put me on the twin settee, stroked my cheek with the back of her hand like a child, sat down beside me, and asked me my news; and from underneath the gown emerged a pair of unexpectedly young legs with good calves, which didn't start thickening until above the knee, everything precisely according to the recipe of the village of Willendorf.