Paris was full, and it was by no means a retired spot which she had found. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. Her figure was perfect,—tall, graceful, rounded,—and, then, she had deep liquid blue eyes, that rivalled the stars in lustre. "Red apples and snow!" she sent back at him, her face suddenly transfixed by some inner glory. “Surely!” he remarked, with an expression of worried appeal. She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation. He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts. Anna glanced into her sister’s face, and rose to her feet. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love.
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