21Molly was up early the next morning, unable to do anything but wait for the Bennetts’ appointment with Dufort at nine. She wandered around the garden, looking at how the night’s frost had changed the way everything looked: every leaf, every stalk, every withered blossom was brushed with white. There was no more clinging to the idea of summer, not anymore.
She tried to tell herself it was beautiful. She knew—objectively and subjectively—it was beautiful, the way the almost infinite number of colors were all variations of green and brown, and even the way the frost was melting in the path of the sun.
But to Molly, it just looked like death. She was not a lover of fall.
Finally she decided to walk quickly to the village and back, so that she could give the Bennetts some croissants before
