But what pleased her more than all the rest was the little deep-set gateway with its ivy-hung arch at the end of the orchard.

It was through this gate that he would come.
She walked several times around the terrace.

The gravel was elastic, and rebounded under her step.

Never had Mlle.

Moriaz felt so light: life, the present, the future, weighed no heavier on her brow than a bird in the hand that holds it and feels it tremble.