“You are strong,” he said, “and you have been a fool.”
Holding her in his arms, he was to her a sunrise ... cool ... cutting mists and a dim sleep. She lay in him like a warm creature in a gentle sun, sucking sun ... all open.
“Soon I must go ... back to Washington ... my home.”
“You have a home?”
“Why do you doubt it?”
“You are so strong away from home.”
“You are a glory, Frances Luve. You are a spirit like a tree, standing alone on a single rock in a marshland.”
“That is what you think of my people?”
“That is what I think of your people.”