Explore "A Motor-Flight Through France" by Edith Wharton on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Spring again, and the long white road unrolling itself southward from Paris. How could one resist the call?
We answered it on the blandest of late March mornings, all April in the air, and the Seine fringing itself with a mist of yellowish willows as we rose over it, climbing the hill to Ville d'Avray. Spring comes soberly, inaudibly as it were, in these temperate European lands, where the grass holds its green all winter, and the foliage of ivy, laurel, holly, and countless other evergreen shrubs, links the lifeless to the living months. But the mere act of climbing that southern road above the Seine meadows seemed as definite as the turning of a leaf -- the passing from a black-and-white page to one illuminated. And every day now would turn a brighter page for us.