You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. How did you get your luggage out of the house? Wasn’t it—wasn’t it rather in some respects—rather a lark? It’s one of my regrets for my lost youth. At the Palazzo she had been confined to her own sunny windowed quarters most of the time, but she had the entire run of the inside of the manor. Impressionable, lonely, a deal beyond his analytical reach, the girl might let her sympathies go beyond those of the nurse. The back of the house had been the Alps for climbing, and the shrubs in front of it a Terai.
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