The clouds in the lake were tinged with pink; I got up but could not bring myself to go; I leaned against the hazel hedge; the evening breeze was caressing the spindle-trees; it was touching me, too, brushing and buffeting me, and I gave myself up to its gentle violence. The hazel leaves were rustling and I understood their mysterious whispers; I was expected: by myself. Bathed in the sunset glow, with the world crouching at my feet like a big friendly animal, I smiled to myself at the adolescent who would die on the morrow only to rise again in all her glory: no other life, no moment in any
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