Through the open window came the scents of the blossoming fruit trees;
the orchard was drenched in sunshine and the branches danced lazily in
the breeze; the grass below fairly shone with white and yellow daisies,
and the red roses climbing in profusion over the casement mingled their
perfume with the sweetly penetrating odour of the sea.
It was a place to dawdle in, to lie and dream away a whole afternoon,
watching the sleepy butterflies and listening to the chorus of birds
which seemed to fill every corner of the sky. Indeed, I was already
debating in my mind whether to linger and enjoy it all instead of taking
the strenuous pathway over the hills, when the old rustic in the settle
opposite suddenly turned his face towards me for the first time and
began to speak.
His voice had a quiet dreamy note in it that was quite in harmony with
the day and the scene, but it sounded far away, I thought, almost as
though it came to me from outside where the shadows were weaving their
eternal tissue of dreams upon the garden floor. Moreover, there was no
trace in it of the rough quality one might naturally have expected, and,
now that I saw the full face of the speaker for the first time, I noted
with something like a start that the deep, gentle eyes seemed far more
in keeping with the timbre of the voice than with the rough and very
countrified appearance of the clothes and manner.
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