For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. ’ ‘That was not what I had in mind. He did not care whether the stories were accepted or not. \"Good morning, Lucy\". Her sister Alice seemed to have developed a religious sense away there in Yorkshire, and made appeals that had no meaning for Ann Veronica’s mind. The smell of laundry detergent was noticeable, the bed sheets very tightly stretched across the bed, tucked in on three sides. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. Now the sense of beauty was spreading to a multitude of hitherto unsuspected aspects of the world about her. ’ ‘Must we talk of it? I’m trying to forget it.
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