THE WINDOWimpossible. So now she laid her brushes neatly inthe box, side by side, and said to William Bankes:

“It suddenly gets cold. The sun seems to giveless heat," she said, looking about her, for it wasbright enough, the grass still a soft deep green, thehouse starred in its greenery with purple passionflowers, and rooks dropping cool cries from the highblue. But something moved, flashed, turned a silverwing in the air. It was September after all, the mid-dle of September, and past six in the evening. Sooff they strolled down the garden in the usual di-rection, past the tennis lawn, past the pampas grass,to that break in the thick hedge, guarded by red hotpokers like brasiers of clear burning coal, betweenwhich the blue waters of the bay looked bluer thanever.

They came there regularly every evening drawnby some need. It was as if the water floated off andset sailing thoughts which had grown stagnant ondry land, and gave to their bodies even some sort ofphysical relief. First, the pulse of colour flooded thebay with blue, and the heart expanded with it andthe body swam, only the next instant to be checkedand chilled by the prickly blackness on the ruffledwaves. Then, up behind the great black rock, almostevery evening spurted irregularly, so that one hadto watch for it and it was a delight when it came,33
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