Zora was a woman; she was also young.
He returned.

The cabman whipped up his strong pair of horses, and they started through the town towards Mentone.
Zora lay back on the cushions and drank in the sensuous loveliness of the night--the warm, scented air, the velvet and diamond sky, the fragrant orange groves--the dim, mysterious olive trees, the looming hills, the wine-colored, silken sea, with its faint edging of lace on the dusky sweep of the bay.

The spirit of the South overspread her with its wings and took her amorously in its arms.
After a long, long silence she sighed, remembering her companion.
"Thank you for not talking," she said softly.
"Don't," he replied.

"I had nothing to say.

I never talk.