"The heat, yes," Solange said, settling beside him with a grunt. She placed a hand on the stone between them, not quite touching him. "They say thunderstorms. A big tempest to wash the dust away."
Plusieurs facteurs psychologiques et sociologiques expliquent cette intensité :
One evening in late August, she sat on the cracked stone wall overlooking the lavender field. The lavender had already been harvested; all that remained were scruffy, gray-green stubs. The summer was ending, and she had nothing left. No father, no first love, no grandmother, and a brother who was a ghost in a small boy’s body.
"Then let the heat in," she murmured. "I’m cold, Julien. I am so cold."
Inside the room, the silence deepened into something final. The breathing had stopped. The iceberg had finally melted away.