It was June, and the world smelled of roses. The sunshine was like powdered gold over the grassy hillside.

The silence in the room had width, height, depth, mass and substance.

And yet, even as she spoke, she knew that she did not wish to come back. not to stay, not to live. She loved the little yellow cottage more than she loved any place on earth. but she was through with it except in her memories.

We'll just have to find more flowers in the spring. That's when they bloom, tra la.

One strain could call up the quivering expectancy of Christmas Eve, childhood, joy and sadness, the lonely wonder of a star

She thought of the library, so shining white and new; the rows and rows of unread books; the bliss of unhurried sojourns there and of going out to a restaurant, alone, to eat.

It was June, and the world smelled of roses. The sunshine was like powdered gold over the grassy hillside.