"I am going out in the garden a little while, 'Liza," said Lucina.
The garden was down-crushed, its extreme of sweetness pressed out beneath the torrid sunbeams as under flaming hoofs.

Lucina passed between the wilting ranks and flattened beds of flowers, and the breath of them in her face was like the rankest sweetness of love, when its delicacy, even for itself, is all gone.

The pungent odor of box was like a shameless call from the street.

Lucina went into the summer-house and sat down.

It was stifling, and the desperate sweetnesses of the garden seemed to have collected there, as in a nest.
Lucina, after a minute, sprang up, her face was a deep pink, she had a gentle distracted frown on her sweet forehead, her lips were pouting; she did not look in the least like the Lucina of the early spring.
She went out of the summer-house, and down the garden paths, and then over a stone wall, into the rear field, which bounded it.