CHAPTER 19It was curious how the whole aspect of the world had changed as Jennifer and I drove down the wet root-ridged lane under the live oaks. The fairy silver and pale mauve and white arabesque of light and moss and flowers had disappeared. The moss, funereal, stained black and green, liquid as pitch and as sinister, dripped heavily from the great leprous-lichened branches of the old trees, and hung like wisps of hag’s-hair from the vines. The magnolia leaves shone glossy as patent leather, the wisteria sagged pale and purple. The gusty wind disturbed the moss till it foamed and writhed like the crests of a storm-driven sea.
We went through the open gate at the end. Jennifer slowed down, but she didn’t stop and go back even to close it. In a sense, I supposed, it was the first step of
