Leaving him to be annoyed,
she gazed at the black head again. She did not want to stroke it,
but she saw herself wanting to stroke it; the sensation was
curious.
"How do you like this view of ours, Mr. Emerson?"
"I never notice much difference in views."
"What do you mean?"
"Because they're all alike. Because all that matters in them is
distance and air."
"H'm!" said Cecil, uncertain whether the remark was striking or
not.
"My father"--he looked up at her (and he was a little flushed)--
"says that there is only one perfect view--the view of the sky
straight over our heads, and that all these views on earth are
but bungled copies of it."
"I expect your father has been reading Dante," said Cecil,
fingering the novel, which alone permitted him to lead the
conversation.
"He told us another day that views are really crowds--crowds of
trees and houses and hills--and are bound to resemble each other,
like human crowds--and that the power they have over us is
sometimes supernatural, for the same reason.
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