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Updated: May 3, 2025
He loved, with a fervour beyond his years, the clear pale oval of his mother's face; the coils of her dark hair, seen always through a film of softest muslin moon-yellow or apple-blossom pink, or deep dark blue like the sky out of his window at night spangled with stars.
Out through the portico they passed into the cool green gardens, freshly watered, exhaling a smell of moist earth and the fragrance of unnumbered roses a very whiff of Home: bushes, standards, ramblers; and everywhere flaunting its supremacy the Maréchal Niel; sprawling over hedges, scrambling up evergreens and falling again, in cascades of moon-yellow blossoms and glossy leaves.
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