Rain had fallen heavily during the night, laying the dust on the road and washing to gay freshness the leaves of palms and gold-spotted orange trees and the purple bourgainvillea and other flowers that rioted on wayside walls.

All the deep, strong color of the South was there, making things unreal: the gray mountains, fragile masses against the solid cobalt of the sky.

The Mediterranean met the horizon in a blue so intense that the soul ached to see it.

The heart of spring throbbed in the deep bosom of summer.

The air as they sped through it was like cool spiced wine.
Zora listened to Clem Sypher's dithyrambics.