Snowdon had vanished; the brilliant morning sun had vanished. The
moon was shining on a cottage near Raxton Church, and at the door two
lovers were standing, wet with the sea-water--with the sea-water
through which they had just waded. All the misery that had followed
was wiped out of my brain. It had not even the cobweb consistence of
a dream.
When, after a while, Snowdon and the drama of the present came back
to me, my brain was in such a marvellous state that it held two
pictures of the same Winnie as though each hemisphere of the brain
were occupied with its own vision. I was kissing Winnie's sea-salt
lips in the light of the moon at the cottage door, and I was kissing
them in the morning radiance by Knockers' Llyn. And yet so
overwhelming was the mighty tide of bliss overflowing my soul that
there was no room within me for any other emotion--no room for
curiosity, no room even for wonder.
Like a spirit awakening in Paradise, I accepted the heaven in which
I found myself, and did not inquire how I got there.
This did not last long, however.
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