To see the gathering
dusk drink down the purple wine that dyes the air, the sea and the light
clouds, until it is almost dark, and then to feel the darkness growing
light again with the warm, yellow moon--to watch the jewels gathering on
the velvet sea, and the sharp black cliffs turning to chiselled silver
above you--to know that the whole night is to be but a softer day--to
see how the love of the sun for the earth is one, and the love of the
moon another--that is a moment for which one may give much and not be
disappointed.
Beatrice Granmichele saw and felt what she had never seen or felt
before, and the magic of Tragara held sway over her, as it does over the
few who see it as she saw it. She turned slowly and glanced at San
Miniato's face. The moonlight improved it, she thought. There seemed to
be more vigour in the well-drawn lines, more strength in the forehead
than she had noticed until now. She felt that she was in sympathy with
him, and that the sympathy might be a lasting one. Then she turned quite
round and faced the commonplace lamp with its pink shade, which stood
on the dinner-table, and she experienced a disagreeable sensation.
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