“I think it has been left alone so long⁠—that it has grown all into a lovely tangle. I think the roses have climbed and climbed and climbed until they hang from the branches and walls and creep over the ground⁠—almost like a strange gray mist. Some of them have died but many⁠—are alive and when the summer comes there will be curtains and fountains of roses. I think the ground is full of daffodils and snowdrops and lilies and iris working their way out of the dark. Now the spring has begun⁠—perhaps⁠—perhaps⁠—”

The soft drone of her voice was making him stiller and stiller and she saw it and went on.

“Perhaps they are coming up through the grass⁠—perhaps there are clusters of purple crocuses and gold ones⁠—even now. Perhaps the leaves are beginning to break out and uncurl⁠—and perhaps⁠—the gray is changing and a green gauze veil is creeping⁠—and creeping over⁠—everything. And the birds are coming to look at it⁠—because it is⁠—so safe and still. And perhaps⁠—perhaps⁠—perhaps⁠—” very softly and slowly indeed, “the robin has found a mate⁠—and is building a nest.”