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           Theironyofitisthatifhehadcaredmoreforthepoemthanfortheladythesonnetwouldbeonlyobvious,imitativerhetoricandnoonewouldeverhavereaditaftertwentyyears....

           ThiswasthelastnightAmoryeversawEleanor.Hewasleavinginthemorningandtheyhadagreedtotakealongfarewelltrotbythecoldmoonlight.Shewantedtotalk,shesaid—perhapsthelasttimeinherlifethatshecouldberational(shemeantposewithcomfort).Sotheyhadturnedintothewoodsandrodeforhalfanhourwithscarcelyaword,exceptwhenshewhispered"Damn!"atabothersomebranch—whispereditasnoothergirlwaseverabletowhisperit.ThentheystartedupHarper’sHill,walkingtheirtiredhorses.

           "GoodLord!It’squiethere!"whisperedEleanor;"muchmorelonesomethanthewoods."

           "Ihatewoods,"Amorysaid,shuddering."Anykindoffoliageorunderbrushatnight.Outhereit’ssobroadandeasyonthespirit."

           "Thelongslopeofalonghill."

           "Andthecoldmoonrollingmoonlightdownit."

           "Andtheeandme,lastandmostimportant."

           Itwasquietthatnight—thestraightroadtheyfolloweduptotheedgeofthecliffknewfewfootstepsatanytime.Onlyanoccasionalnegrocabin,silver-grayintherock-ribbedmoonlight,brokethelonglineofbareground;behindlaytheblackedgeofthewoodslikeadarkfrostingonwhitecake,andaheadthesharp,highhorizon.Itwasmuchcolder—socoldthatitsettledonthemanddroveallthewarmnightsfromtheirminds.

           "Theendofsummer,"saidEleanorsoftly.