It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. She quickened her pace, and so did he, talking at her slightly averted ear. “You didn’t expect that I should kiss you?” “How was I to know that a man would—would think it was possible—when there was nothing—no love?” “How did I know there wasn’t love?” That silenced her for a moment. Did you hear us through the archway, talking cookery?” They went up by the lift in silence. We can love on a snow cornice, we can love over a pail of whitewash.
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