The cottagers sat outside their doors, singing in the sun.

The vine-covered hills, although not yet clothed with their green garment, were still beautiful, while away in the distance spread a broad Italian plain, dotted with villages, out of whose midst a modest church spire ever lifted its head.
I had seen all this before, but to Simon it was a marvel of beauty.

In England the streets were muddy, and a yellow fog hung over London, and yet in forty-eight hours we were beneath sunny skies, we were breathing a comparatively humid air.
But I must not stay to write about this, for my story is not about Italian scenery, or beautiful sights of any sort.

It is my work now to tell about my search after Kaffar.
We arrived in Turin on Friday evening, about fifty-one hours from the time we started from London.

We had spent some little time in Paris, or we could have done it more quickly.