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more vivid. I didn’t enjoy it so well, 
and I’m blessed if I know why. Perhaps 
I shall discover a year from now on 
a rereading, and it doesn’t matter 
much, anyhow, since it is a fine and a 
readable book. I should like to quote 
a paragraph as an example of this 
exquisite and distinguished style:

But what after all is one night? A short 
space, especially when the darkness dims so 
soon, and so soon a bird sings, a cock 
crows, or a faint green quickens, like a 
turning leaf, in the hollow of the wave. 
Night, however, succeeds to night. The 
winter holds a pack of them in store and 
deals them equally, evenly, with indefatigable 
fingers. They lengthen; they 
darken. Some of them hold aloft clear 
planets, plates of brightness. The autumn 
trees, ravaged as they are, take on the flash 
of tattered flags kindling in the gloom of 
cool cathedral caves where gold letters on 
marble pages describe death in battle and
how bones bleach and burn far away in 
Indian sands. The autumn trees gleam in 
the yellow moonlight, in the light of harvest 
moons, the light which mellows the energy 
of labour, and smooths the stubble, and 
brings the wave lapping blue to the shore.