Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before. “Oh, Lucy. Ennison,” she exclaimed, “is that really you?” There was no sign of embarrassment in her manner. The arm about her was steel hard, and she felt the weapon that was placed at her heart, which thumped uncomfortably in her chest. “I’d never have a day of peace again, John.
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