"
"Oh, it shall have its romance! But some time I'll tell
you--perhaps I will--how I'm not really a clever person at all,
but just a savage from outer darkness, who pretends to
understand London and Paris and Munich, and gets frightfully
scared of them.... Wait! Listen! Hear the mist drip from that
tree. Are you nice and drowned?"
"Uh--kind of. But I been worrying about you being soaked."
"Let me see. Why, your sleeve is wet clear through. This khaki
of mine keeps out the water better.... But I don't mind getting
wet. All I mind is being bored. I'd like to run up this hill
without a thing on--just feeling the good healthy real mist on
my skin. But I'm afraid it isn't done."
Mile after mile. Mostly she talked of the boulevards and Pere
Dureon, of Debussy and artichokes, in little laughing sentences
that sprang like fire out of the dimness of the mist.
Dawn came. From a hilltop they made out the roofs of a town and
stopped to wonder at its silence, as though through long ages
past no happy footstep had echoed there.
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