“[I]n the orchard of a spring day later, between her fourteenth and
eighteenth years when the early May sun was making pink lamps of every
aged tree and the ground was pinkly carpeted with the falling and
odorous petals, she would stand and breathe and sometimes laugh, or
even sigh, her arms upreached or thrown wide to life. To be alive! To
have youth and the world before one.”

—Theodore Dreiser, An American Tragedy, 1925.