Presently lights began to come out along the river, like the gold eyes
of cats.
"How cool your fingers are, Zoe. Like the petals of something."
"Lilly, naughty man is holding back one of my hands on me."
"Lovely hands."
"Naughty man."
Silence.
"Oh dear."
"Oh dearest."
"That wasn't for you. That was a sigh."
"But I stole it."
"Cheeky."
Giggles.
Silence again and they turned off a macadamized road that was
prematurely dark with trees and into a lariat of driveway that elicited
from Zoe a squeal of enthrallment.
Even to Lilly, though she had figured in its purchase, there was
something startling in the vast classic whiteness and formal Italian
chastity of the house as they flanked it, drawing up under a
porte-cochere of Corinthian columns. Through a double row of cypresses
turning black, that inclosed a sunken garden, Dante and Virgil might
have moved, and yet, Lilly, aching with the analogy which could not
conjure, could only call up rather foolishly the three-color magazine
advertisement of a low-streamline motor car, drawn up before just such
Renaissance magnificence.
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