yet the hour, spring hardly shows the end of his icy nose. . . ."
"Like yours," said Luce.
"Very soon we shall awake on a fine summer's day. . . ."
"We ourselves shall be that fine day of summer," says Luce.
"The warm shade of the limetrees, the sun through the branches, the bees that sing. . . ."
"The peach on the warm wall and its perfumed pulp. . . ."
"The noon spell of the harvesters and their golden sheaves. . . ."
"The lazy cattle that chew their cud. . . ."
"And at evensong, by the sunset like a flowerset pool, the liquid light that runs across the tops of the fields. . . ."
"Yes, we shall be everything," quoth Luce, "everything that is good and sweet to see and to have, to kiss and to eat, to touch and inhale. . . . What's left over we shall leave to them," she added, pointing to the city and its smoke wreaths.
