‘Eh bien?’ ‘You are perfectly right, Melusine. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. "Red apples and snow!" he repeated. ‘But only think, Hilary,’ Lucy protested, evidently too involved in her theory to waste time in scolding. She so wanted to keep her memory of him fresh, so wanted to memorize his kisses and to conjure his embrace someday when he was mere dust in the ground.
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