Tess was conscious of neither time nor space. The exaltation which
she had described as being producible at will by gazing at a star
came now without any determination of hers; she undulated upon the
thin notes of the second-hand harp, and their harmonies passed like
breezes through her, bringing tears into her eyes. The floating
pollen seemed to be his notes made visible, and the dampness of
the garden the weeping of the garden's sensibility. Though near
nightfall, the rank-smelling weed-flowers glowed as if they would not
close for intentness, and the waves of colour mixed with the waves of
sound.
The light which still shone was derived mainly from a large hole in
the western bank of cloud; it was like a piece of day left behind
by accident, dusk having closed in elsewhere. He concluded his
plaintive melody, a very simple performance, demanding no great
skill; and she waited, thinking another might be begun. But, tired
of playing, he had desultorily come round the fence, and was rambling
up behind her. Tess, her cheeks on fire, moved away furtively, as if
hardly moving at all.
Angel, however, saw her light summer gown, and he spoke; his low
tones reaching her, though he was some distance off.
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