She approaches the jasmine; she raises her arms, the sleeves falling like a vapor down to the shoulders; rises upon tiptoe, and plucks a spray.

O Memory! Can it be?
_Can it be_?
Is this his quest, or is it lunacy?
The ground seems to Monsieur Vignevielle the unsteady sea, and he to stand once more on a deck.

And she?
As she is now, if she but turn toward the orange, the whole glory of the moon will shine upon her face.

His heart stands still; he is waiting for her to do that.

She reaches up again; this time a bunch for her mother.