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She was now at the window, immersed in a melancholy sense of total isolation; the water stirring along the masonry below, a call from a shadowy fishing boat dropping down the bay, filled her with longing for the cheerful existence of the Lungarno.
"I hope Mochales excuses you because of your greenness." "Youth isn't any longer your crime," Lavinia retorted at last. "That dress it would suit Anna Mantegazza; but you looked only indecent." "Perhaps you're right, Gheta," Lavinia said unexpectedly. "I'm going to bed now, please." Her balance, restored by sleep, was once more normal when she returned to the Lungarno.
It looked straight across the river at the opposite Lungarno: and there was the thin-necked tower of the Palazzo Vecchio, and the great dome of the cathedral in the distance, in shadow-bulk in the cold-aired night of stars. Little trams were running brilliant over the flat new bridge on the right. And from a garden just below rose a tuft of palm-trees.
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.
I take a personal interest in the city's disaster now it overwhelmed one of my friends. On the Lungarno in Florence, in the cool of the evening, we walked together, the Senator, momma, Dicky, and I. Dicky radiated depression, if such a thing is atmospherically possible; we all moved in it. Mr.
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