Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: June 16, 2025
If "style," in Venice, sits among ruins, let us always lighten our tread when we pay her a visit. Our steps were in fact, I am happy to think, almost soft enough for a death-chamber as we stood in the big, vague <i>sala</i> of the three sisters, spectators of their simplified state and their beautiful blighted rooms, the memories, the portraits, the shrunken relics of nine Doges.
The stones in the rings upon her hand pressed to her forehead glittered in the lamplight abreast of the door of the sala. "Who's there?" she asked, in a startled voice. "Is that you, Basilio?" She looked in, and saw Martin Decoud walking about, with an air of having lost something, amongst the chairs and tables.
Just then Cuchillo, accompanied by Baraja, entered to pay their respects to the master of the hacienda. Their entrance within the sala of course created some slight disarrangement in the tableaux of the dramatis personal already there. This confusion gave Tiburcio an opportunity to carry out a desperate resolution he had formed, and profiting by it, he advanced nearer to Rosarita.
In the great sala, with its groups of ancient Spanish and modern European furniture making as if different centres under the high white spread of the ceiling, the silver and porcelain of the tea-service gleamed among a cluster of dwarf chairs, like a bit of a lady's boudoir, putting in a note of feminine and intimate delicacy.
Endued with strength and activity, possessed of great prowess, the son of Bhimasena, inflamed with wrath in battle, inspired all the troops with fear. All the limbs broken and bones reduced to fragments, the frightful Rakshasa Alamvusha, thus slain by the heroic Ghatotkacha, resembled a tall Sala uprooted and broken by the wind.
In the Sala di Apollo, at the right of the door as we enter, is Andrea's portrait of himself, a serious and mysterious face shining out of darkness, and below it is Titian's golden Magdalen, No. 67, the same ripe creature that we saw at the Uffizi posing as Flora, again diffusing Venetian light.
But what is she else if not the Highest Ideal which, working its way from within outwards, is at length reflected in the external independent form?" "A strange theory, but yet plausible," was Edward's comment, as the two friends, arm in arm, passed out from Sala Tarone's into the street. The celebrated painter Salvator Rosa comes to Rome, and is attacked by a dangerous illness.
That night, then, the sala presented a curious aspect, being filled with friars and clerks seated on Vienna chairs, stools of black wood, and marble benches of Cantonese origin, before little square tables, playing cards or conversing among themselves, under the brilliant glare of the gilt chandeliers or the subdued light of the Chinese lanterns, which were brilliantly decorated with long silken tassels.
"What is the matter with you?" asked the latter, frightened, as she saw the young woman's face. "Take me to my room!" she begged, clinging to the arm of the old woman in order to raise herself to her feet. "Are you sick, my child? You seem to have lost all your strength. What is the matter with you?" "A little sick to my stomach ... the crowd in the sala ... so much light ... I need to rest.
"She promise me to him when he come back; he go to join General Castro." "Benicia!" He glanced about. Altimira had left the house. Every one was too excited to notice them. He drew her across the hall and into the little sala, deserted since the startling news had come. "Benicia," he said hurriedly, "there is no time to be lost. You are such a butterfly I hardly know whether you love me or not."
Word Of The Day
Others Looking