Even the light was different in Athens, soft and golden, sweet as the morning dew blessed by Athena herself. It had gone with the rest. I know all. She climbed slowly towards it, keeping close to the hedge side, fragrant with wild roses, and holding her skirts high above the dew-laden grass. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer.
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