She would read them, and spend the whole morning in a daze of happiness; the sunny land outside the window being no less capable of analysing its own colour and heat than she was of analysing hers.

In these moods she found it impossible to read or play the piano, even to move being beyond her inclination.

The time passed without her noticing it.

When it was dark she was drawn to the window by the lights of the hotel.

A light that went in and out was the light in Terence's window: there he sat, reading perhaps, or now he was walking up and down pulling out one book after another; and now he was seated in his chair again, and she tried to imagine what he was thinking about.