They wrapped themselves up in their memories as though they were cold.
"The other day, just before we left, I took a candle and walked alone through the rooms, which scarcely woke up to watch me pass." In the garden, so prim and well kept, they thought only of the flowers, and little else.

They saw the pool, the shady walk, and the cherry tree, which, in winter when the lawn was white, they made believe had too many blossoms--snow blossoms.
The day before they had still been in the garden, like brother and sister.

Now life seemed to have grown serious all at once, and they no longer knew how to play.

I saw that they wanted to kill the past.
When we are old, we let it die; when we are young and strong, we kill it.
She sat up straight.
"I don't want to remember any more," she said.
And he: "I don't want us to be like each other any more.

I don't want us to be brother and sister any more." Gradually their eyes opened.
"To touch nothing but each other's hands," he muttered, trembling.
"Brother--sister--that's nothing." It had come--the hour of beautiful, troubled decisions, of forbidden fruits.