Dusty, gusty Perugia! O baby, to be born for the freeing of woman,
was it here, was it here you must draw your first breath, in an air
polluted by the vices of centuries!
XI.
Somewhat later in the day, they went out for a stroll through the
town together. To Herminia's great relief, Alan never even noticed
she had been crying. Man-like, he was absorbed in his own delight.
She would have felt herself a traitor if Alan had discovered it.
"Which way shall we go?" she asked listlessly, with a glance to
right and left, as they passed beneath the sombre Tuscan gate of
their palazzo.
And Alan answered, smiling, "Why, what does it matter? Which way
you like. Every way is a picture."
And so it was, Herminia herself was fain to admit, in a pure
painter's sense that didn't at all attract her. Lines grouped
themselves against the sky in infinite diversity. Whichever way
they turned quaint old walls met their eyes, and tumble-down
churches, and mouldering towers, and mediaeval palazzi with carved
doorways or rich loggias.
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