“I think,” began Ann Veronica, “that you don’t realize—” He disregarded her entirely. The idea of leaving for Mexico had become unbearable, as he was so easy to like and perhaps even easier to love. Was it a week ago? No, perhaps more. Husbands and wives, young lovers, and mothers with strollers thronged in the streets, all savoring the fine cool weather. Coming from the gloom of the passage, even the corridors seemed sufficiently illuminated for them to see their way. The call of youth to youth, and we name it love for want of something better: a glamorous, evanescent thing "like snow upon the desert's dusty face, lighting a little hour or two, was gone.
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