The air was too relaxing or soft or something for them both, and poor Wilson declares that another month of Venice would have killed her outright.

Certainly she looked dreadfully ill and could eat nothing.

So I was forced to be glad to go away, out of pure humanity and sympathy, though I keep saying softly to myself ever since, 'What is there on earth like Venice ?' Then, we slept at Padua on St.Anthony's night (more's the pity for us: they made us pay sixteen zwanzigers for it!), and Robert and I, leaving Wiedeman at the inn, took a caleche and drove over to Arqua, which I had set my heart on seeing for Petrarch's sake.

Did you ever see it, _you_?
And didn't it move you, the sight of that little room where the great soul exhaled itself?
Even Robert's man's eyes had tears in them as we stood there, and looked through the window at the green-peaked hills.
And, do you know, I believe in 'the cat.' Through Brescia we passed by moonlight (such a flood of white moonlight) and got into Milan in the morning.

There we stayed two days, and I climbed to the topmost pinnacle of the cathedral; wonder at me! Indeed I was rather overtired, it must be confessed--three hundred and fifty steps--but the sight was worth everything, enough to light up one's memory for ever.