The house where she was born, the house facing, across a row of box and
a finely wrought iron paling, the old, leafy city square, walked bodily
into her. She was through it, up and down, like the air. It seemed to
her that there wasn't anything she didn't know about it, and it all came
together into an inner aroma, taste and tone, dry, warm, pungent and
likable, idiosyncratic, its very own. It had been a loss, a grief, when
the city had taken and torn down that house. And all the time it was
waiting for her, in a deep reality, to walk in and take possession!