По эту сторону рая

           Whenthestorycametoheruncle,aforgetfulcavalierofamorehypocriticalera,therewasascene,fromwhichEleanoremerged,subduedbutrebelliousandindignant,toseekhavenwithhergrandfatherwhohoveredinthecountryonthenearsideofsenility.That’sasfarasherstorywent;shetoldhimtherestherself,butthatwaslater.

           OftentheyswamandasAmoryfloatedlazilyinthewaterheshuthismindtoallthoughtsexceptthoseofhazysoap-bubblelandswherethesunsplatteredthroughwind-drunktrees.Howcouldanyonepossiblythinkorworry,ordoanythingexceptsplashanddiveandlollthereontheedgeoftimewhiletheflowermonthsfailed.Letthedaysmoveover—sadnessandmemoryandpainrecurredoutside,andhere,oncemore,beforehewentontomeetthemhewantedtodriftandbeyoung.

           ThereweredayswhenAmoryresentedthatlifehadchangedfromanevenprogressalongaroadstretchingeverinsight,withthescenerymergingandblending,intoasuccessionofquick,unrelatedscenes—twoyearsofsweatandblood,thatsuddenabsurdinstinctforpaternitythatRosalindhadstirred;thehalf-sensual,half-neuroticqualityofthisautumnwithEleanor.Hefeltthatitwouldtakealltime,morethanhecouldeverspare,togluethesestrangecumbersomepicturesintothescrap-bookofhislife.Itwasalllikeabanquetwherehesatforthishalf-hourofhisyouthandtriedtoenjoybrilliantepicureancourses.

           Dimlyhepromisedhimselfatimewhereallshouldbeweldedtogether.