Afterwards he walked part way home with Hazel, and coming back under the driving sky–that seemed to move all in a piece like a sliding window, and showed the moon as a slim lady waiting for unlooked-for happenings–he could have wept at the crude sweetness of Hazel. She was of so ruthless an honesty towards herself as well as others; she had such strange lights and shadows in her eyes, her voice, her soul; she was so full of faults, and so brimming with fascination.