Explore "The Refugees" by Edith Wharton on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Charlie Durand's window was very low and wide, and quaintly trellised. There was no mistaking it: it was a "lattice"--a real one, with old bluish panes set in black mouldings, not the stage variety made of plate glass and papier mache that he had seen in the sham "Cottage" of aesthetic suburbs at home.
When he pushed the window open a branch of yellow roses brushed his face, and a dewy clematis gazed in at him with purple eyes. Below lay a garden, incredibly velvety, flower-filled, and enclosed in yew-hedges so high that it seemed, under the low twilight sky, as intimate and shut in as Miss Rushworth's low-ceilinged drawing-room, which, in its turn, was as open to the air, and as full of flowers, as the garden.