207 She romanced a dark-haired farmer a few times, having long since forgotten his name. So far she had not heard the sound of his voice. Her eyes were insane with rage, crusted with yellow and green, only beginning to heal from her long sojourn underground. He worried me to marry him. The evenings were dulcet and soft. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. . Wild. I want to leave Paris to-day—this very day. Blue haze had settled beyond the black silhouettes of trees, graduating to the deep violet that began the night sky.
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