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Updated: May 1, 2025
As though stirred by furious pokers, the sun showed like a kiln-hole, darting a light almost white-hot, burning one's face. A hot dust rose from the roads, scorching the dry trees, and the yellowed lawns became a deep brown. A temperature like that of a foundry hung over the dwelling of Des Esseintes. Half naked, he opened a window and received the air like a furnace blast in his face.
"Is there not milking-time, When you go to bed, or kiln-hole, To whistle off these secrets; but you must be Tattling before all our guests?" Winter's Tale
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