Her guitar seemed to leap into life, her face shone with the hot passion of memory, her voice rang with the pain of a disappointed life: "Granada, Granada, thy gardens are gay, And bright are thy stars, the high stars above; But as flowers that fade and are gray, But as dusk at the end of the day, Are ye to the light in the eyes of my love In the eyes, in the soul, of my love.
"Granada, Granada, oh, when shall I see My love in thy gardens, there waiting for me?
"Beloved, beloved, have pity, and make Not the sun shut its eyes, its hot, envious eyes, And the world in the darkness of night Be debtor to thee for its light.
Turn thy face, turn thy face from the skies To the love, to the pain in my eyes.
"Granada, Granada, oh, when shall I see My love in thy gardens, there waiting for me!" From that night forward she had been restless and petulant and like one watching and waiting.

It seemed to her that she must fly from the life which was choking her.

It was all so petty and so small.

People went about sneaking into other people's homes like detectives; they turned yellow and grew scrofulous from too much salt pork, green tea, native tobacco, and the heat of feather beds.

The making of a rag carpet was an event, the birth of a baby every year till the woman was forty-five was a commonplace; but the exit of a youth to a seminary to become a priest, or the entrance to the novitiate of a young girl, were matters as important as a battle to Napoleon the Great.
How had she gone through it all so long, she asked herself?
The presence of Jean Jacques had become almost unbearable when, the day done, he retired to the feather bed which she loathed, though he would have looked upon discarding it like the abdication of his social position.
A feather bed was a sign of social position; it was as much the dais to his honour as is the woolsack to the Lord Chancellor in the House of Lords.
She was waiting for something.