The last long slope of the road showed us the river curving to the left, through a silent white waste that stretched indefinitely into the moonlight on one side, and was crowned by Akbar's fort on the other.

His long high line of turrets and battlements still guarded a hint of their evening rose, and dim and exquisite above them hovered the three dome-bubbles of the Pearl Mosque.

It was a night of perfect illusion, and the illusion was mysterious, delicate, and faint.

I sat silent as we rolled along, twenty years nearer to the original joy of things when John and I drove through the same old dream.
Dacres, too, seemed preoccupied; only Cecily was, as they say, herself.
Cecily was really more than herself, she exhibited an unusual flow of spirits.

She talked continually, she pointed out this and that, she asked who lived here and who lived there.