answered lazily. Her lids drooped slowly. Lazily
she stretched and there was the soft sound of moving cloth.
Even the shadows were light. Pale beige, palest blue, they were merely indistinct objects tossed high on walls, in corners, like severed insect wings magnified, or like
Children's smocks hung on pegs unused.
"How early do you think it is?"
"Does it matter? You know it doesn't."
"No, but guess."
"Oh, I see," Cleo again rested her head upon her pillows and her pale golden strands swirled outward and entered and clasped the dark. Where the sun touched a corner in a triangle of brilliant white, there the dark flourished auburn and the gold rendered copper.
Cleo speculated. "The church bell will tell us soon."
"The streetcars are running, hear the rumble?"
"Madam Chalbuerre's canary is singing."
"It must be after 8."
"It will be hot, then."
"That's what summer is for."
Rose remembered, and fell into it.