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Updated: June 19, 2025


"Ah, Count," said one of them, advancing, and getting hold of Adrian's hand. "How do you do? I am the Marchese del Ponte; this is my brother, the Marchese Baldo. Welcome to Sampaolo. We are your connections, you know. Our ancestors have intermarried any time these thousand years." Adrian's rosy face was wreathed in his most amiable smiles. "How do you do? I 'm very glad to see you.

I will entreat you, not for my sake, but for your own sake, for the sake of your dead father and mother, to put this ruinous vagary from you, to abandon this preposterous journey, and to stay quietly here in Sampaolo. Then, if you must open up the past, if you must get into communication with your distant cousin, I 'll help you to find some other, some sane and decorous method of doing so."

"As you must perceive, the history of Sampaolo is a matter I have studied somewhat profoundly. How could I forget so salient a fact as that? The name that he assumed," she said, her air elaborately detached, "was Craford." But Anthony evinced not the slightest sign of a sensation. "Craford?" he repeated. "Ah, indeed? That is a good name, a good old south-country Saxon name."

"Yes," she at once acknowledged, "I daresay I 'm suppressing a good many of the details." "That's not ingenuous," said he, "nor nor kind." "It was not unkindly meant," said she. "But Sampaolo," he questioned, "had, then, been independent? Go on. Be communicative, be copious; tell me all about it." "For more than seven hundred years," answered Susanna, "Sampaolo had been independent.

"Antonio, by the Grace of God, and the favour of the Holy See, Count of Sampaolo thirty-fourth count, and eighteenth of the name. I am your very loyal subject. Let's conspire together for your restoration." "You told me the other day that you were a subject of the Pope," Anthony objected. "That is during this interregnum," she explained.

I 'll explain it to you later he 'll be arriving at any moment now. He shall leave for Sampaolo to-morrow morning. You and I will leave the morning after, if you please. Only, of course, he's to know nothing about that he's to suppose that we 're remaining here." She attempted a somewhat delicate stroke off the cushion, and achieved it. "Good shot," approved Miss Sandus.

Time that monster-mother, who brings forth her children only to devour them Time shall doubt of . . ." "Rome may be the official sort of address she gives to land-agents and people," Anthony interposed. "But the part of Italy where she really lives is a little castaway island in the Adriatic, some fifty miles north from Ancona, the little, unknown, beautiful island of Sampaolo."

And she'll have the satisfaction of knowing that you know what's she costing you." Anthony stood over her, looked down upon her. "This is the most awful nonsense," he said, with a grave half-laugh. "It is my condition," said she. "You must start for Sampaolo to-morrow morning." "You 'll never really send me on such a fool's errand," he protested. "You have promised," said she.

In winter they go to Rome, or to Nice, or to England for the hunting; but in summer they pervade Sampaolo, where they have a villa just outside Vallanza, as well as the dark old palace of their family in the town. The twin brothers, Franco and Baldo del Ponte who that has once met them can ever forget them? To begin with, they are giants six-feet-four, and stalwart in proportion.

Basil, rosemary, white heather, you can pluck where you will. And everywhere that they can find a footing, oleanders grow, the big double red ones, great trees of them, such wonder-worlds of colour, such fountains of perfume. The birds of Sampaolo never cease their singing they sing as joyously in December as in June. And the nightingales of Sampaolo sing all day, as well as all night.

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