They are the windows of the room where some twenty-five years ago I used to meet a girl I shan’t name. The past is across the street from the present; the distance between, slight. Directly under those three windows a sort of daybed was placed, and there—with the shutters closed—we used to come together. This young woman was unremarkable in every way except one. When she was making love, her face became an extraordinary high pink. That is what I remember about her most; she looked like one of Renoir’s models. That pink was the evidence of a most loving and generous nature. If you had met her on the street, you’d certainly have thought she was a proper, even a prim girl. And she was—except in the exercises of love. Then she became another creature.

Do I regret all that happened across my street twenty-five years ago? How could I, when I remember with such tender feelings that young woman and how intent and pink her face became?