Kathleen Thompson Norris (July 16, 1880, San Francisco, California – January 18, 1966, Palo Alto, California) was an American novelist and wife of fellow writer Charles Norris, whom she wed in 1909. She was educated in a special course at the University of California and wrote many popular romance novels that some considered sentimental and honest in their prose. Norris was the highest-paid female writer of her time, and many of her novels are held in high regard today. Many of her novels were set in California, particularly the San Francisco area. They feature detailed descriptions of the upper-class lifestyle. After 1910 she contributed to Atlantic, The American Magazine, McClure's, Everybody's, Ladies' Home Journal and Woman's Home Companion.
For forty-eight hours the snow-storm had been raging unabated over New York. After a wild and windy Thursday night the world had awakened to a mysterious whirl of white on Friday morning, and to a dark, strange day of steady snowing. Now, on Saturday, dirty snow was banked and heaped in great blocks everywhere, and still the clean, new flakes fluttered and twirled softly down, powdering and feathering every little ledge and sill, blanketing areas in spotless white, capping and hooding every unsightly hydrant and rubbish-can with exquisite and lavish beauty. Shovels had clinked on icy sidewalks all the first day, and even during the night the sound of shouting and scraping had not ceased for a moment, and their more and more obvious helplessness in the teeth of the storm awakened at last in the snow-shovellers, and in the men and women who gasped and stumbled along the choked thoroughfares, a sort of heady exhilaration in the emergency, a tendency to be proud of the storm, and of its effect upon their humdrum lives. They laughed and shouted as they battled with it, and as Nature’s great barrier of snow threw down the little barriers of convention and shyness. Men held out their hands to slipping and stumbling women, caught them by their shoulders, panted to them that this was a storm, all right, this was the worst yet! Girls, staggering in through the revolving glass doors of the big department stores, must stand laughing helplessly for a few seconds in the gush of reviving warmth, while they beat their wet gloves together, regaining breath and self-possession, and straightened outraged millinery.
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