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Updated: June 1, 2025
And opening the gate, she ran through the little pathway that hid its stones under rose-bushes. She threw herself into the first carriage she found. The coachman wore forget-me-nots on his hat and on the handle of his whip: "Great Britain Hotel, Lungarno Acciaoli." She knew where that was, Lungarno Acciaoli.
She was disturbed by the echo of a voice from the cool depths of the house, and turned at approaching footfalls. The room was so high and large that its stiff gilt and brocade furnishing appeared insignificant. Three long windows faced the Lungarno, but two were screened with green slatted blinds and heavily draped, and the light within was silvery and illusive.
Oh, yes, she recalled Lungarno Acciaoli and the river-side beyond the old bridge Great Britain Hotel she knew: a big stone facade on the quay. It was fortunate, since he would come, that he had gone there. He might as easily have gone to the Hotel de la Ville, where Dechartre was. It was fortunate they were not side by side in the same corridor. Lungarno Acciaoli!
"She said that she would write you, and for you to remain here till you received the letter." "Was that all?" "Yes. Have you seen anything of that wretched man Worth, who is the cause of all this trouble?" "No, nor do I care to." "Suppose the three of us take a stroll along the Lungarno?" suggested Merrihew. "It will be the last chance together." "You two go. I am worn out," said Hillard.
We leave the river again for a few minutes about fifty yards along the Lungarno Acciaioli beyond the Trinit
When they suddenly said "Buon 'appetito," withdrew their heads and shoulders, slammed the door, and departed. Then the train set off also and shortly after six arrived in Florence. It was debated what should Aaron do in Florence. The young men had engaged a room at Bertolini's hotel, on the Lungarno. Bertolini's was not expensive but Aaron knew that his friends would not long endure hotel life.
From the window of the drawing-room Lavinia Sanviano could see, on the left, the Statue of Garibaldi, where the Corso Regina Maria cut into the Lungarno; on the right, and farther along, the gray-green foliage of the Cascine. Before her the Arno flowed away, sluggish and without a wrinkle or reflection on its turbid surface, into Tuscany.
Across the river the declining sun cast a rosy light on the great glossy hedges and clipped foliage of the Boboli Gardens; far to the left the paved height of the Piazzale Michelangelo rose above the somber sweep of roofs and bridges; an aged bell rang harshly and mingled with the inconsequential clatter on the Lungarno.
The little third seat had been let down for him; his knees were snugly wedged in between those of the ladies. Aurora was beaming over at him; Estelle was beaming, too. Aurora's smile was a blandishment; Estelle's was a light. The horses were flying toward the Lungarno. And he gave up; he helplessly gave up trying to find an excuse for asking to be set down again and allowed to go his lonely way.
Ours spoke good French and was clearly a man of parts. Lulled by his soothing descriptions I passed in a kind of dream through this ancient abode of peace. The Certosa dates from 1341 and was built and endowed by a wealthy merchant named Niccolo Acciaioli, after whom the Lungarno Acciaioli is named.
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