"Well," he continued, "why don't you say it? How impertinent am I? You
won't? Why don't you laugh, then?"
"Dear me!" I replied. "You are so much on the
'subtle-souled-psychologist' line, that there's no need of my speaking
at all."
"I can carry on all the dialogue? Then let _me_ say how you liked the
Islands."
"I shall do no such thing. I liked the West Indies because there is life
there; because the air is a firmament of balm, and you grow in it like
a flower in the sun; because the fierce heat and panting winds wake and
kindle all latent color, and fertilize every germ of delight that might
sleep here forever. That's why I liked them; and you knew it just as
well before as now."
"Yes; but I wanted to see if you knew it. So you think there is life
there in that dead Atlantis."
"Life of the elements, rain, hail, fire, and snow."
"Snow thrice bolted by the northern blast, I fancy, by which time it
becomes rather misty. Exaggerated snow."
"Everything there is an exaggeration. Coming here from England is like
stepping out of a fog into an almost exhausted receiver; but you've no
idea what light is, till you've been in those inland hills.
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