“You are grave!”
“Not so grave as you.”
“But I laugh. I must tell you ... the first time I really heard laughter....”
—You move upon my life like a broken sun ashift through cloud at evening after a black day.... You in the flame of my candles, you in the black of my room.... What is this word Christ you know too deep to utter?”
Fanny standing moved her hand from the gathered flowers on the table ... cherry and pear buds high, bowls of anemone, violets ... to her lips.
“He is coming!” She stood.
The door thrust forward—and was away from between them. Clad in white she held firm against the sight of him; tall and dark with pale hands and face, he rose from her still eyes like a column of smoke.
“Harry!” Then she held out her arms.
He shut the door. He knelt.