Now and again there was a fierce glint in his eyes as he watched Therese's swinging hips.
On reaching Saint-Ouen, they lost no time in looking for a cluster of trees, a patch of green grass in the shade.

Crossing the water to an island, they plunged into a bit of underwood.

The fallen leaves covered the ground with a russety bed which cracked beneath their feet with sharp, quivering sounds.

Innumerable trunks of trees rose up erect, like clusters of small gothic columns; the branches descended to the foreheads of the three holiday makers, whose only view was the expiring copper-like foliage, and the black and white stems of the aspens and oaks.

They were in the wilderness, in a melancholy corner, in a narrow clearing that was silent and fresh.