Sapphire. No, cobalt. No, that's too cold.
Mediterranean. Turquoise. And the sand in golden contrast.
Miles of sand along the beach, and back of that the dunes.
Now, any dictionary or Scotchman will tell you that a dune
is a hill of loose sand. But these dunes are done in
American fashion, lavishly. Mountains of sand, as far as
the eye can see, and on the top of them, incredibly, great
pine trees that clutch at their perilous, shifting foothold
with frantic root-toes. And behind that, still more
incredibly, the woods, filled with wild flowers, with
strange growths found nowhere else in the whole land, with
trees, and vines, and brush, and always the pungent scent of
the pines. And there you have the dunes--blue lake, golden
sand-hills, green forest, in one.
Fanny and Clarence stood there on the sand, in silence, two
ridiculously diminutive figures in that great wilderness of
beauty. I wish I could get to you, somehow, the clear
sparkle of it, the brilliance of it, and yet the peace of
it. They stood there a long while, those two, without
speaking.
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