The chief superintendent of the festivities, my father's old cook, Monsieur Alphonse, turned twilight into noonday with a sheaf of rockets at the moment my lips brushed her cheek.

It was a kiss marred; I claimed to amend it.

Besides, we had been bosom friends in childhood.

My wonder at the growth of the rose I had left but an insignificant thorny shoot was exquisite natural flattery, sweet reason, to which she could not say nonsense.

At each step we trod on souvenirs, innocent in themselves, had they recurred to childish minds.