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"And you never saw that next day the report of his death was contradicted?" "Florence, what do you mean?" "You went away from England just then with a mind at ease, did you not? But I was here, with nothing to do but to think and brood and read; and I read more than that. There were two men named Westwood at Portland, and the one who died as was stated in next day's paper was not the one we knew."
Vivian Bell walked, arrayed in white, in the fragrant garden. "You see, darling, Florence is truly the city of flowers, and it is not inappropriate that she should have a red lily for her emblem. It is a festival to-day, darling." "A festival, to-day?" "Darling, do you not know this is the first day of May? You did not wake this morning in a charming fairy spectacle?
And if you don't like him, there's my old lover Appletown, you know, my dear, all that is a long while ago. I said to Appletown more than ten years ago "Appletown, this must end, I am an old woman." You've no idea the look he gave me. "Florence," he said, "don't call yourself an old woman, I can't bear it. You'll never be an old woman, at least not in my eyes."
Now, we will over to the Italian coast, and cross, if you will, from Leghorn to Florence. There, we are now in the very lap of genius and of poetry; let us pause here and breathe the dreamy, soothing, balmy air of Italy.
After her long months in India, it was really imperative, she declared, that she should get back to Florence and see what was happening to her little place there; and she had been so comfortable on the Utopia that she had a fancy to return by the same ship.
Angelo in 1528, his account of his escape being the gem of his "Autobiography"; in France at the court of Francis I in 1540-44; in Florence serving the Medici, 1544-71, and for them produced the Perseus now standing in Florence; his "Autobiography" not printed until 1730, altho well known previously in manuscript form.
Sometimes I feel like a girl that has run away from home diamonds and dyed hair, you know and then wakes up at night and cries to think of what a price she has paid for all her fine things!" Florence waved her hand towards the alabaster statue of Pocahontas, with a little ripple of self-disdain.
GINO CAPPONI, whose death, on the 3d of February last, has been noticed in all the principal journals of Europe and America, belonged to a family that has been honored in Florence for more than five hundred years, and whose name occurs on almost every page of its history. He was born in that city on the 14th of September, 1792.
"Upon my word you gave me a horrid fright. Don't play that sort of trick again, that's all. We are to have that article, then, in two days?" "Yes, yes." He left her. The moment he had done so Florence snatched up the paper which he had brought back, tore it into a hundred fragments, thrust the fragments into the fire, and rushed downstairs. She herself was desperate now.
If German princes fell upon one another, that would make the Pope, the little fruit of Florence, happy; he would laugh in his sleeve and say: "There, you German beasts, you would not have me as Pope, so have that."... I cannot hold my hands; I must strive to help poor Germany, miserable, forsaken, despised, betrayed, and sold to whom indeed I wish no harm, but everything that is good, as my duty to my dear Fatherland commands me.
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