END OF THE SECOND EPOCH. It saved long voyages and long waits; and the buyers rarely grumbled because the prices were stiff. There is no further hope. Beyond was an avenue of tall poplars that rose like columns, disappearing into undulating hills that were black with sleeping houses and fertile soil. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. He was dressed with the utmost care, and he set his feet upon the broad walk as though the action were in some way a condescension. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden.
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