My sister Anne is by some years my
senior. She is what might be called an old lady now, and she certainly
was an old maid then, and had long accepted her position as such. Then,
as now, she habitually wore a gray alpaca gown, a pair of gold-rimmed
spectacles, gloves a couple of sizes too large for her, and a shapeless,
broad-leaved straw hat, from which a blue veil was flung back and
streamed out in the breeze behind her, like a ship's ensign. Then, as
now, she was the simplest, the most kind-hearted, the most prejudiced
of mortals; an enthusiastic admirer of the arts, and given, as her own
small contribution thereto, to the production of endless water-colour
landscapes, a trifle woolly, indeed, as to outline, and somewhat faulty
as to perspective, but warm in colouring, and highly thought of in
the family. I believe, in fact, that it was chiefly with a view to
the filling of her portfolio that she had persuaded me to take her to
Venice; and, as I am constitutionally indolent, I was willing enough to
spend a few weeks in the city which, of all cities in the world, is
the best adapted for lazy people. We engaged rooms at Danielli's,
and unpacked all our clothes, knowing that we were not likely to make
another move until the heat should drive us away.
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