In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. There are men in the Lowndean who laugh at him—simply laugh at him. In fact he was thinking of other things. “One moment, if you please!” She stopped short and looked round. Then she raised the glass nearer to her lips. His noble Florentine roots went back a thousand years, to the days of grand Rome herself.
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