It was a summer of wistaria. The twilight was full of it and of the smell of his father's cigar as they sat on the front gallery after supper until it would be time for Quentin to start , while in the deep shaggy lawn below the veranda the fireflies blew and drifted in soft random - the odor, the scent, which five months later Mr Compson's letter would carry up from Mississipi and over the long iron New England snow and into Quentin's sitting-room at Harvard.
（Absalom,Absalom ［✳︎Ⅱ✳︎］）