cw.imarriedadeadman

　But not for us.　The winter nights are too. The nights of fall, the nights of spring. Not for us, not for us.　The house we live in is so pleasant in Caulfield. The blue-green tint of its lawn, that always seems so freshly watered no matter what the time of day. The sparkling, aerated pinwheels of the sprinklers always turning, steadily turning; if you look at them closely enough they form rainbows before your eyes. The clean, sharp curve of the driveway. The dazzling whiteness of the porch-supports in the sun. Indoors, the curving white symmetry of the banister, as gracious as the dark and glossy stair it acpanies down from above. The satin finish of the rich old floors, bearing a telltale

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