The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. And now she was discovering that even Nature was something of a liar, with her mirages and her horizons. “I believe that you are right,” he said softly. He drove her to the Beck house, pulling up behind Cathy's red Nissan. ‘Oh, Marthe,’ she groaned, using in her accustomed way the French version of her nurse’s name, ‘that pig is going to monsieur le baron. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. It’s not fair to you. However, it doesn't much signify.
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