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Updated: June 8, 2025
He felt a sort of stitch in his heart, and for a minute or two he could not hear what Hayward was saying. But he filled his glass with Chianti. He was unaccustomed to alcohol and it had gone to his head. For the time at all events he was free from care. His quick brain had lain idle for so many months that he was intoxicated now with conversation.
I told my trouble to Michael, with the result that I get a teapot full of Chianti with my dinner every night, and no questions asked." "Oh! you do?" gasped Nancy. "You see Michael is serving the best interests of his employer, who wants to keep her patrons, because if I couldn't have it I wouldn't be there.
If the sky is cloudy the eclipse will take place in the drill shed." Two brothers were being entertained by a rich friend. As ill luck would have it, the talk drifted away from ordinary topics. "Do you like Omar Khayyam?" thoughtlessly asked the host, trying to make conversation. The elder brother plunged heroically into the breach. "Pretty well," he said, "but I prefer Chianti."
They drank Chianti wine from the wicker-covered flasks, tied with tufts of red and green silk, in which they serve table wine at Florence, and said how pretty the bottles were, but how the wine did not seem very good. "It certainly isn't so good as it used to be," said Colville.
Craven described the restaurant, the company, the general atmosphere, the Chianti and Toscanas, and, proceeding with artful ingenuity, at last came to his climax Lady Sellingworth and Miss Van Tuyn in their corner with their feet on the sanded floor and a smoking dish of Risotto alla Milanese before them. "Adela Sellingworth in Soho!
Even when we dined at the fashionable open air restaurant in the Cascine, with no less a person than Ouida, in a fluff of grey hair and black lace, at the next table, and the most distinguished gambler of the Italian aristocracy presenting a narrow back to us from the other side, he permitted poppa to compare the quality of the beef fillets unfavourably with those of New York in silence, and drank his Chianti with a lack-lustre eye.
Italian restaurants, German delicatessen shops, eating places of a dozen other nationalities lined the pavement on both sides of the street, and in front of one of these a high-power motor stood, protected by the watchful eye of an accommodating policeman while the chauffeur sampled Chianti in a wine-shop close by.
Finally, having been sent by the Marquis to Aiuola, a fortress in the Chianti, while disposing the artillery he was wounded in the head by a harquebus-ball; wherefore he was taken by his soldiers to the Pieve di S. Paolo, which belongs to Bishop da Ricasoli, and died in a few days, and was carried to San Marino, where he received honourable burial from his children.
Oliver began drinking wine every night at home, taking refuge in a jovial family life that was drifting toward the rocks. He looked stressed when he wasn't drinking. Jennifer worried about him and urged him to dump the hospital job. "Well," Oliver said to her one evening, pouring a large glass of Chianti Classico, "you're going to like this they are dumping me." Jennifer applauded.
"We go now," he continued, "into a foreign land foreign, at least, to you, my young Exquisite the land of journalists, of foreigners, of hairdressers and anarchists, and cutthroats of every description. Nevertheless, we shall dine well, and if you will only drink enough of the chianti which I shall order, I can promise you a nap on your way to Dover. You look as though you could do with it."
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