” He stood looking at the preparations before them with an unusual preoccupation of manner, then roused himself to take her jacket, a little awkwardly, and hand it to the waiter who hung it in the corner of the room. ‘Difficult, I grant you. Would it be Thérèse?’ She shook her head. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. But with the morning, the glorious unstained morning the passion of living would stir even the blood of a clod. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story.
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