Explore "A Bottle of Perrier" by Edith Wharton on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Medford had said that he would wait for Almodham a year; but the next morning he found that such arbitrary terms had lost their meaning. There were no time measures in a place like this. The silly face of his watch told its daily tale to emptiness. The wheeling of the constellations over those ruined walls marked only the revolutions of the earth; the spasmodic motions of man meant nothing.
The very fact of being hungry, that stroke of the inward clock, was minimized by the slightness of the sensation--just the ghost of a pang, that might have been quieted by dried fruit and honey. Life had the light monotonous smoothness of eternity.