The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.
Oscar WildeOut of the unreal shadows of night comes back the real life that we had known. We have to resume it where we had left off... p 207
Oscar Wilde