Between tall poles, from which purple clusters hung, Olivo led his guest to the summit.

With a complacent air of ownership, he waved towards the house, lying at the foot of the hill.

Casanova fancied he could detect a female figure flitting to and fro in the turret chamber.
The sun was near to setting, but the heat was still considerable.

Beads of perspiration coursed down Olivo's cheeks, but Casanova's brow showed no trace of moisture.

Strolling down the farther slope, they reached an olive grove.