Спрут: Калифорнийская история

           Whenaneastwindblew,menonthestreetsofBonneville,nearlytwelvemilesaway,couldcatchthescentofthisvalleyofflowers,thischaosofperfume.

           Andintothislifeofflowers,thisworldofcolour,thisatmosphereoppressiveandcloggedandcloyedandthickenedwithsweetodour,Angelehadbeenborn.Thereshehadlivedhersixteenyears.Thereshehaddied.ItwasnotsurprisingthatVanamee,withhisintense,delicatesensitivenesstobeauty,hisalmostabnormalcapacityforgreathappiness,hadbeendrawntoher,hadlovedhersodeeply.

           Shecametohimfromoutoftheflowers,thesmelloftherosesinherhairofgold,thathungintwostraightplaitsoneithersideofherface;thereflectionofthevioletsintheprofounddarkblueofhereyes,perplexing,heavy-lidded,almond-shaped,oriental;thearomaandtheimperialredofthecarnationsinherlips,withtheiralmostEgyptianfulness;thewhitenessofthelilies,theperfumeofthelilies,andthelilies’slenderbalancinggraceinherneck.Herhandsdisengagedtheodouroftheheliotropes.Thefoldsofherdressgaveofftheenervatingscentofpoppies.Herfeetwereredolentofhyacinths.

           Foralongtimeaftersittingdownuponthebench,neitherthepriestnorVanameespoke.ButafterawhileSarriatookhiscigarfromhislips,saying:

           “Howstillitis!Thisisabeautifuloldgarden,peaceful,veryquiet.SomedayIshallbeburiedhere.Iliketorememberthat;andyou,too,Vanamee.”

           “Quiensabe?”

           “Yes,you,too.Whereelse?No,itisbetterhere,yonder,bythesideofthelittlegirl.