But it is an old story now, and two of the
actors in it are dead, and of the remaining three I dare say I am the
only one who cares to recall it. Even to me it is a somewhat painful
reminiscence.
GONERIL, By A. Mary F. Robinson
CHAPTER I THE TWO OLD LADIES
On one of the pleasant hills round Florence, a little beyond Camerata,
there stands a house so small that an Englishman would probably take it
for a lodge of the great villa behind, whose garden trees at sunset
cast their shadow over the cottage and its terrace on to the steep white
road. But any of the country people could tell him that this, too, is a
_casa signorile_, despite its smallness. It stands somewhat high above
the road, a square white house with a projecting roof, and with four
green-shuttered windows overlooking the gay but narrow terrace. The beds
under the windows would have fulfilled the fancy of that French poet
who desired that in his garden one might, in gathering a nosegay, cull
a salad, for they boasted little else than sweet basil, small and white,
and some tall gray rosemary bushes. Nearer to the door an unusually
large oleander faced a strong and sturdy magnolia-tree, and these, with
their profusion of red and white sweetness, made amends for the dearth
of garden flowers.
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