And I bore, too, the good Madame Marmet.
It is wrong." She escorted them to their rooms.
An hour later, Madame Martin, rested, fresh, in a gown of foulard and lace, went on the terrace where Miss Bell was waiting for her.

The humid air, warmed by the sun, exhaled the restless sweetness of spring.
Therese, resting on the balustrade, bathed her eyes in the light.

At her feet, the cypress-trees raised their black distaffs, and the olive-trees looked like sheep on the hills.

In the valley, Florence extended its domes, its towers, and the multitudes of its red roofs, through which the Arno showed its undulating line.

Beyond were the soft blue hills.
She tried to recognize the Boboli Gardens, where she had walked at her first visit; the Cascine, which she did not like; the Pitti Palace.