It seemed so strange for any one to die in June; so strange to be
lifeless in the midst of the wanton profusion of life, to grow cold in
that quivering radiance of heat. The people below us have got boxes of
calla-lilies on their balcony this year. Their hot, heavy scent used to
come in at the open window in the afternoons when the sun was on them,
the honey-sweet smell of life, intense, penetrating, filling every
corner of the room with splendid, pagan summer. And on the bed tossed my
step-mother, muttering ceaselessly to herself of Christ.