“In the garden, in a gazebo, two young girls, almost children, were sitting. It was very early spring; the trees still stood completely bare, and grass was showing here and there along the edges of the paths—but in the air there was already a breath of real warmth. Through the stripped branches of the lindens and acacias, the high, pale sky was brightening. In the south, in Little Russia, March is often as warm as May…”