The Palazzo was unlike anything she had ever known. There was first the Avenue, which ran in a consciously elegant curve from the railway station into an undeveloped wilderness of agriculture, with big, yellow brick villas on either side, and then there was the pavement, the little clump of shops about the postoffice, and under the railway arch was a congestion of workmen’s dwellings. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. ” Ann Veronica fenced for a moment. He was a philosopher. What more could any reasonable man— especially a watchman—desire? Besides, the Marquis, is a devilish fine fellow, and a particular friend of mine. I presume that you have been living alone?” She sighed gently. Not content with this, the assailants set fire to the house in half-a-dozen other places; and the progress of the flames was rapid and destructive. But her tears had been for Leonardo’s expulsion, and the loss of his companionship.
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