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Updated: May 17, 2025
Jack Cardigan took her mother. Prosper Profond took Imogen. Fleur went in by herself, with her bells jingling.... The "small" moon had soon dropped down, and May night had fallen soft and warm, enwrapping with its grape-bloom colour and its scents the billion caprices, intrigues, passions, longings, and regrets of men and women.
Jack Cardigan took her mother. Prosper Profond took Imogen. Fleur went in by herself, with her bells jingling.... The "small" moon had soon dropped down, and May night had fallen soft and warm, enwrapping with its grape-bloom colour and its scents the billion caprices, intrigues, passions, longings, and regrets of men and women.
Surely now the world has found its long sleep; and the pearly glimmer from the moon will last, and the precious silence never again yield to clamour; the grape-bloom of this mystery never more pale out into gold . . . . And yet it is not so. The nightly miracle has passed. It is dawn. Faint light has come. I am waiting for the first sound.
The creatures of night were slow to come forth after that long bright summer's day, watching for the shades of the trees to sink deeper and deeper into the now chalk-white water; watching for the chalk-white face of the sky to be masked with velvet. The very black-plumed trees themselves seemed to wait in suspense for the grape-bloom of night.
Jack Cardigan took her mother. Prosper Profond took Imogen. Fleur went in by herself, with her bells jingling.... The "small" moon had soon dropped down, and May night had fallen soft and warm, enwrapping with its grape-bloom colour and its scents the billion caprices, intrigues, passions, longings, and regrets of men and women.
The first rays of the rising sun were painting the barren hills with the purple of grape-bloom, and laying a pathway of molten gold across the waters when the Battle Squadrons returned to their bases.
Surely now the world has found its long sleep; and the pearly glimmer from the moon will last, and the precious silence never again yield to clamour; the grape-bloom of this mystery never more pale out into gold . . . . And yet it is not so. The nightly miracle has passed. It is dawn. Faint light has come. I am waiting for the first sound.
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