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stream. The train sped between hills and oak woods where
white and blue anemones and yellow primroses grew among the
faded leaves. She said she wanted to get out to pick them,
gather them in the falling rain among the dripping leaves
under the wet branches. “This is like spring at home,” she said.
It had been snowing; some of the snow was still lying grey
in the ditches, and the flowers were wet and heavy, with petals
stuck together.
Little rivulets rushed down the crevices, vanishing under the
railway line. A shower beat against the window and drove the
smoke to earth.
Then it cleared over valleys and grove, and the water streamed
down the sides of the hills.
He had had some of his things in one of the girls’ boxes.
When he remembered it in the evening they had already begun
to undress and were laughing and chatting when he knocked
at their door. Jenny opened it a little, giving him what he
asked for. She had on a light dressing-jacket with short sleeves,
leaving the slender white arm bare. It tempted him to many
kisses, but he dared only give it one single, light one. He had
been in love with her then, intoxicated with the spring, the
wine, the merry rain, and the sudden sunshine, with his own
youth and the joy of life. He wanted to make her dance—that
tall, fair girl, who smiled so guardedly as if she were
trying a new art, something she had never yet done—she who
had stared with grey, serious eyes at all the flowers they passed
and that she wanted to pick.
Oh, how different all might have been! The dry, bitter sob
shook his frame again.
The day they went to Montefiascone it rained too, so hard
that the water was flung back from the stone bridge on to the
girls’ lifted skirts and ankles. How they had laughed, all three
of them, when they walked up the narrow street, the rain-water
streaming towards them in small torrents. When they reached
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