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Over all, the great Santangelo raised his misty head against the pale green eastern sky, gazing down at the life below, at the living land and the living sea, and remembering, perhaps, the silent days before life was, or looking forward to the night to come in which there will be no life left any more.
It was beautiful always, but most beautiful when the sun, setting behind Ischia, sent a perfect glory over the rippling sea, and tinged the Monte Santangelo and the cliffs which bound the Piano di Sorrento literally with purple and gold.
The villa we lived in was at a short distance from and above the town, quite buried in groves of oranges and lemons, beyond which lay the sea, generally calm and blue, sometimes stormy; to our left the islands of Ischia and Procida, the Capo Miseno, with Baia, Pozzuoli, and Posilipo; exactly opposite to us, Naples, then Vesuvius, and all the little towns on that coast, and lastly, to our right, this wonderful panorama was bounded by the fine cliffs of the Monte Santangelo.
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