She had thrown back her head, and, half turned, was looking toward the crepe-myrtle tree from which the faint odor came.
He rode off and left her standing with her head still thrown back, her thoughtful face drinking in the odor of the crepe-myrtle.
Travis did not understand, for no crepe-myrtle had ever come into his life.
But, O mystic odor of the crepe-myrtle—O love which never dies—how differently it grows and lives and blooms!
How long they sat on the rustic bench under the crepe-myrtle they did not know.
The death song of the crepe-myrtle, aroused by a south wind suddenly awakened, smote her painfully.