Crazy Radio eBooks

Often, while he ate, Artois turned his eyes towards the mountain of
Capri, and each time that he did so he saw, beyond it and its circling
sea, Sicily, Monte Amato, the dying lights on Etna, the evening star
above its plume of smoke, the figure of a woman set in the shadow of
her sorrow, yet almost terribly serene; and then another woman,
sitting at a table, vehemently talking, then bowing down her head
passionately as if in angry grief.
When he had finished his dinner the sun had set, and night had dropped
down softly over the Bay. Capri had disappeared. The long serpent of
lights had uncoiled itself along the sea. Down below, very far down,
there was the twang and the thin, acute whine of guitars and
mandolines, the throbbing cry of Southern voices. The stars were out
in a deep sky of bloomy purple. There was no chill in the air, but a
voluptuous, brooding warmth, that shed over the city and the waters a
luxurious benediction, giving absolution, surely, to all the sins, to
all the riotous follies of the South.


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