Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before. “Let us walk round to Covent Garden,” he suggested. The tears were welling over now, but her voice was steady. Gianfrancesco was not ugly, in fact, perhaps he was rather handsome after all. As for the doctor, he found a pleasure in this service that would have puzzled him had he paused to analyse it.
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