This morning my ears were filled with a high clear sound broken into small sharp edges; it was a little while before I knew it was from birds. The room was filled with dim light; the ceiling was high and the walls far away, for it was a big room. I made out the top of a green shutter and then saw that the shutters ran from the ceiling to a floor of plain polished boards without a rug. I was in an immense bed.
The sheets felt dry and hot as if their cotton were brittle. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and slipped down; the boards were cool under my feet as I walked to the window. After a few minutes I found how the shutters opened and threw them back.
The garden was light, but it was a young light without sun, clear and stained green by the shrubs and trees. The peace I had felt at the gates of Les Oeillets filled me again and I could have whistled like the birds for well-being and joy.
Rumer Godden The Greengage Summer
