'Look,' said
Rhoda; 'listen. Look how the light
becomes richer, second by second, and bloom and ripeness lie everywhere; and our eyes, as they
range round this room with all its tables, seem to push through
curtains of colour, red, orange, umber and queer ambiguous tints,
which yield like veils and close behind them, and one thing melts
into another.'
The Waves (97)
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