I came down from my tree bed, several hundred feet up in a Sequoiadendron, and found June under a duster almost as big as the room itself. I drew a door and went through; on the wall was a portrait of Vittoria Colonna, who I pretended to know - I discussed her poetry with the artificial coal fire and then resolved not to bathe for the rest of the year. Outside the distant hills had crept nearer during the night, I calculated they would be touching the unopened window by the end of the month, and the sky seemed to me to be smiling to itself. I foolishly stated that it might end up blinded like Polyphemus even though as a small boy I had been promised in marriage to an elderly sheep. June walked to town using several different routes simultaneously, she arrived at various times.