And since poor
Georges can't help me now, I must go on--alone."
CHAPTER XVII
I BURN MY BRIDGES
If I live to be a hundred, and it is not improbable since I am healthy,
I shall never forget that little garden at the inn at Bleau. It was a
vegetable garden too, which is not in itself romantic. I recall vaguely
that there were beds all about us, which in due course would doubtless
sprout into rows of pale green objects--peas and artichokes, or beans
and cabbages maybe; I don't know, I am sure. But then, there was the
stream running just outside the wall of masonry; there was the sky,
flushing with that faint, very delicate, very lovely pink that an early
spring morning brings in France; there was the quaint building, wrapped
up in slumber, beside us; and in the air a silent, fragrant dimness, the
promise of the dawn.
And then there was the girl. I suppose that was the main thing. Not that
I felt sentimental. I should have scouted the notion. If I meant to fall
in love,--which, I should have said, I had no idea of doing,--I would
certainly not begin the process in this unheard-of spot.
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