It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. He seemed to possess infinite reserves of patience when she refused him or purposely tried to bait and anger him, but his patience only made him seem more sinister. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. Curiosity held her by one hand, urging her to recklessness, and caution held her by the other. It was the first day you kissed me, under the willows, coming into Veraz. .
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