Viola and Norah, I remember, sat close together on the long seat under the elm tree. Jevons was on the other side of Viola. I sat on a cushion at her feet.
The night had a rhythm in it. Stillness and peace. The Cathedral chimes. Stillness and peace again. And there was a smell of cut lawn grass with dew on it from the ground, and of roses from the borders, and of lichen and moss and crumbling mortar from the walls. Sometimes these smells pierced the peace like sound; and sometimes they gathered close and wrapped us like warmth.
Then Jevons spoke.
"All this," he said, "is very beautiful. Very beautiful indeed."
And Viola sighed.
"Yes, Yes," she said. "I suppose it is beautiful."
"You know it is," he said.
"I know all right. But I don't think I can see it as you do. I've been shut up in it so long. It's all this that you've taken me out of."
"It's all this," he said, "that's made you what you are."
"It isn't. This isn't really me. It's just Them. I'm what I've made myself. I'm what you've made me. I'm uglier than they are. I'm uglier than anything here, but I'm much, much more alive."