noon
He used to sit in the garden by the hour , with his head thrown back , his legs outstretched , his hands in his pockets , and his eyes fastened upon the blinding summer sky . He would gather a dozen books about him , tumble them out on the ground , take one into his lap , and leave it with the pages unturned . These moods would alternate with hours of extreme restlessness , during which he mysteriously absented himself . He bore the heat of the Italian summer like a salamander , and used to start off at high noon for long walks over the hills . He often went down into Florence , rambled through her close , dim streets , and lounged away mornings in the churches and galleries . On many of these occasions Rowland bore him company , for they were the times when he was most like his former self . Before Michael Angelo 's statues and the pictures of the early Tuscans , he quite forgot his own infelicities , and picked up the thread of his old aesthetic loquacity .