D. m'envoie ça ce matin

« In the raw veiled spring morning faint odours float of morning Paris: aniseed, damp sawdust, hot dough of bread: and as I cross the Pont Saint Michel the steelblue waking waters chill my heart. They creep and lap about the island whereon men have lived since the stone age..... Tawny gloom in the vast gargoyled church. It is cold as on that morning »