Explore "Thomas Wingfold. Volume I" by George MacDonald on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
A soft west wind, issuing as from the heart of a golden vase filled with roses, met them the instant they turned out of the street, walking their horses towards the park-gate.
Something -- was it in the evening, or was it in his own soul? -- had prevailed to the momentary silencing of George Bascombe: -- it may have been but the influence of the cigar which Helen had begged him to finish. Helen too was silent: she felt as if the low red sun, straight into which they seemed to be riding, blotted out her being in the level torrent of his usurping radiance. Neither of them spoke a word until they had passed through the gate into the park.