Journal of Katherine Mansfield
Lying facing the window I woke early. The blind was half pulled down. A deep pink light flew in the sky, and the shapes of the trees, ancient barns, towers, walls were all black. The pools and rivers were quicksilver. Nearing Avignon, the orchard in the first rays of sunlight shone with gold fruit: apples flashed like stars.
L.M.'s legs dangled. She dropped down, slowly waving her big grey legs, as though something pulled her, dragged her—the tangle of rich blue weeds on the red carpet.
“A-vig … Avig … Avig-non.” she said.
“One of the loveliest names in the world done to death,” said I. “A name that spans the ancient town like a bridge.”
She was very impressed. But then George Moore could impress her.