Риф, или Там, где разбивается счастье

XI

           Nowtheywerealoneforthefirsttimeandthefactwasenoughinitself.YetAnnawasintenselyawarethatassoonastheybegantotalkmoreintimatelytheywouldfeelthattheykneweachotherlesswell.

           Theypassedoutontotheterraceanddownthestepstothegravelwalkbelow.Thedelicatefrostingofdewgavethegrassabluishshimmer,andthesunlight,slidinginemeraldstreaksalongthetree-boles,gathereditselfintogreatluminousblursattheendofthewood-walks,andhungabovethefieldsawaterygloryliketheringaboutanautumnmoon.

           “It’sgoodtobehere,”Darrowsaid.

           Theytookaturntotheleftandstoppedforamomenttolookbackatthelongpinkhouse-front,plainer,friendlier,lessadornedthanonthesidetowardthecourt.Soprolongedyetdelicatehadbeenthefrictionoftimeuponitsbricksthatcertainexpanseshadthebloomandtextureofoldredvelvet,andthepatchesofgoldlichenspreadingoverthemlookedlikethelasttracesofadimembroidery.Thedomeofthechapel,withitsgildedcross,roseaboveonewing,andtheotherendedinaconicalpigeon-house,abovewhichthebirdswereflying,lustrousandslatey,theirbreastsmergedintheblueoftheroofwhentheydroppeddownonit.

           “Andthisiswhereyou’vebeenalltheseyears.”

           Theyturnedawayandbegantowalkdownalongtunnelofyellowingtrees.Bencheswithmossyfeetstoodagainstthemossyedgesofthepath,andatitsfartherenditwidenedintoacircleaboutabasinrimmedwithstone,inwhichtheopaquewaterstrewnwithleaveslookedlikeaslabofgold-fleckedagate.

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