Explore "A Motor-Flight Through France" by Edith Wharton on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The same wonderful white road, flinging itself in great coils and arrow-flights across the same spacious landscape, swept us on the next day to Beauvais. If there seemed to be fewer memorable incidents by the way -- if the villages had less individual character, over and above their general charm of northern thrift and cosiness -- it was perhaps because the first impression had lost its edge; but we caught fine distant reaches of field and orchard and wooded hillside, giving a general sense that it would be a good land to live in -- till all these minor sensations were swallowed up and lost in the overwhelming impression of Beauvais.
The town itself -- almost purposely, as we felt afterward -- failed to put itself forward, to arrest us by any of the minor arts which Arras, for instance, had so seductively exerted. It maintained an attitude of calm aloofness, of affected ignorance of the traveller's object in visiting it -- suffering its little shuttered non-committal streets to lead us up, tortuously, to the drowsiest little provincial _place_, with the usual lime-arcades, and the usual low houses across the way; where suddenly there soared before us the great mad broken dream of Beauvais choir -- the cathedral without a nave -- the Kubla Khan of architecture.