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"Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" | Lucy | She looked at him cautiously.<|quote|>"Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?"</|quote|>He added to his kindness. | out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously.<|quote|>"Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?"</|quote|>He added to his kindness. As soon as he had | might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously.<|quote|>"Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?"</|quote|>He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, | come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously.<|quote|>"Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?"</|quote|>He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was | "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously.<|quote|>"Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?"</|quote|>He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the | no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously.<|quote|>"Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?"</|quote|>He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've | medieval lady, who was rather an ideal to which she was bidden to lift her eyes when feeling serious. Nor has she any system of revolt. Here and there a restriction annoyed her particularly, and she would transgress it, and perhaps be sorry that she had done so. This afternoon she was peculiarly restive. She would really like to do something of which her well-wishers disapproved. As she might not go on the electric tram, she went to Alinari's shop. There she bought a photograph of Botticelli's "Birth of Venus." Venus, being a pity, spoilt the picture, otherwise so charming, and Miss Bartlett had persuaded her to do without it. (A pity in art of course signified the nude.) Giorgione's "Tempesta," the "Idolino," some of the Sistine frescoes and the Apoxyomenos, were added to it. She felt a little calmer then, and bought Fra Angelico's "Coronation," Giotto's "Ascension of St. John," some Della Robbia babies, and some Guido Reni Madonnas. For her taste was catholic, and she extended uncritical approval to every well-known name. But though she spent nearly seven lire, the gates of liberty seemed still unopened. She was conscious of her discontent; it was new to her to be conscious of it. "The world," she thought, "is certainly full of beautiful things, if only I could come across them." It was not surprising that Mrs. Honeychurch disapproved of music, declaring that it always left her daughter peevish, unpractical, and touchy. "Nothing ever happens to me," she reflected, as she entered the Piazza Signoria and looked nonchalantly at its marvels, now fairly familiar to her. The great square was in shadow; the sunshine had come too late to strike it. Neptune was already unsubstantial in the twilight, half god, half ghost, and his fountain plashed dreamily to the men and satyrs who idled together on its marge. The Loggia showed as the triple entrance of a cave, wherein many a deity, shadowy, but immortal, looking forth upon the arrivals and departures of mankind. It was the hour of unreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously.<|quote|>"Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?"</|quote|>He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just | her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously.<|quote|>"Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?"</|quote|>He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards | A Room With A View |
He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. | No speaker | your kindness by fetching them?"<|quote|>He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno.</|quote|>"Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with | cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?"<|quote|>He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno.</|quote|>"Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. | well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?"<|quote|>He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno.</|quote|>"Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather | held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?"<|quote|>He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno.</|quote|>"Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had | done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?"<|quote|>He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno.</|quote|>"Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose | but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?"<|quote|>He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno.</|quote|>"Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't | she was bidden to lift her eyes when feeling serious. Nor has she any system of revolt. Here and there a restriction annoyed her particularly, and she would transgress it, and perhaps be sorry that she had done so. This afternoon she was peculiarly restive. She would really like to do something of which her well-wishers disapproved. As she might not go on the electric tram, she went to Alinari's shop. There she bought a photograph of Botticelli's "Birth of Venus." Venus, being a pity, spoilt the picture, otherwise so charming, and Miss Bartlett had persuaded her to do without it. (A pity in art of course signified the nude.) Giorgione's "Tempesta," the "Idolino," some of the Sistine frescoes and the Apoxyomenos, were added to it. She felt a little calmer then, and bought Fra Angelico's "Coronation," Giotto's "Ascension of St. John," some Della Robbia babies, and some Guido Reni Madonnas. For her taste was catholic, and she extended uncritical approval to every well-known name. But though she spent nearly seven lire, the gates of liberty seemed still unopened. She was conscious of her discontent; it was new to her to be conscious of it. "The world," she thought, "is certainly full of beautiful things, if only I could come across them." It was not surprising that Mrs. Honeychurch disapproved of music, declaring that it always left her daughter peevish, unpractical, and touchy. "Nothing ever happens to me," she reflected, as she entered the Piazza Signoria and looked nonchalantly at its marvels, now fairly familiar to her. The great square was in shadow; the sunshine had come too late to strike it. Neptune was already unsubstantial in the twilight, half god, half ghost, and his fountain plashed dreamily to the men and satyrs who idled together on its marge. The Loggia showed as the triple entrance of a cave, wherein many a deity, shadowy, but immortal, looking forth upon the arrivals and departures of mankind. It was the hour of unreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?"<|quote|>He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno.</|quote|>"Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the | to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?"<|quote|>He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno.</|quote|>"Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has | A Room With A View |
"Miss Honeychurch!" | George Emerson | the arcade towards the Arno.<|quote|>"Miss Honeychurch!"</|quote|>She stopped with her hand | a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno.<|quote|>"Miss Honeychurch!"</|quote|>She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit | dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno.<|quote|>"Miss Honeychurch!"</|quote|>She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." | void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno.<|quote|>"Miss Honeychurch!"</|quote|>She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the | another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno.<|quote|>"Miss Honeychurch!"</|quote|>She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his | Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno.<|quote|>"Miss Honeychurch!"</|quote|>She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I | it, and perhaps be sorry that she had done so. This afternoon she was peculiarly restive. She would really like to do something of which her well-wishers disapproved. As she might not go on the electric tram, she went to Alinari's shop. There she bought a photograph of Botticelli's "Birth of Venus." Venus, being a pity, spoilt the picture, otherwise so charming, and Miss Bartlett had persuaded her to do without it. (A pity in art of course signified the nude.) Giorgione's "Tempesta," the "Idolino," some of the Sistine frescoes and the Apoxyomenos, were added to it. She felt a little calmer then, and bought Fra Angelico's "Coronation," Giotto's "Ascension of St. John," some Della Robbia babies, and some Guido Reni Madonnas. For her taste was catholic, and she extended uncritical approval to every well-known name. But though she spent nearly seven lire, the gates of liberty seemed still unopened. She was conscious of her discontent; it was new to her to be conscious of it. "The world," she thought, "is certainly full of beautiful things, if only I could come across them." It was not surprising that Mrs. Honeychurch disapproved of music, declaring that it always left her daughter peevish, unpractical, and touchy. "Nothing ever happens to me," she reflected, as she entered the Piazza Signoria and looked nonchalantly at its marvels, now fairly familiar to her. The great square was in shadow; the sunshine had come too late to strike it. Neptune was already unsubstantial in the twilight, half god, half ghost, and his fountain plashed dreamily to the men and satyrs who idled together on its marge. The Loggia showed as the triple entrance of a cave, wherein many a deity, shadowy, but immortal, looking forth upon the arrivals and departures of mankind. It was the hour of unreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno.<|quote|>"Miss Honeychurch!"</|quote|>She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they | had come too late to strike it. Neptune was already unsubstantial in the twilight, half god, half ghost, and his fountain plashed dreamily to the men and satyrs who idled together on its marge. The Loggia showed as the triple entrance of a cave, wherein many a deity, shadowy, but immortal, looking forth upon the arrivals and departures of mankind. It was the hour of unreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno.<|quote|>"Miss Honeychurch!"</|quote|>She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I | A Room With A View |
She stopped with her hand on her heart. | No speaker | towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!"<|quote|>She stopped with her hand on her heart.</|quote|>"You sit still; you aren't | and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!"<|quote|>She stopped with her hand on her heart.</|quote|>"You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." | out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!"<|quote|>She stopped with her hand on her heart.</|quote|>"You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man | its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!"<|quote|>She stopped with her hand on her heart.</|quote|>"You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself | her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!"<|quote|>She stopped with her hand on her heart.</|quote|>"You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside | did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!"<|quote|>She stopped with her hand on her heart.</|quote|>"You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then | perhaps be sorry that she had done so. This afternoon she was peculiarly restive. She would really like to do something of which her well-wishers disapproved. As she might not go on the electric tram, she went to Alinari's shop. There she bought a photograph of Botticelli's "Birth of Venus." Venus, being a pity, spoilt the picture, otherwise so charming, and Miss Bartlett had persuaded her to do without it. (A pity in art of course signified the nude.) Giorgione's "Tempesta," the "Idolino," some of the Sistine frescoes and the Apoxyomenos, were added to it. She felt a little calmer then, and bought Fra Angelico's "Coronation," Giotto's "Ascension of St. John," some Della Robbia babies, and some Guido Reni Madonnas. For her taste was catholic, and she extended uncritical approval to every well-known name. But though she spent nearly seven lire, the gates of liberty seemed still unopened. She was conscious of her discontent; it was new to her to be conscious of it. "The world," she thought, "is certainly full of beautiful things, if only I could come across them." It was not surprising that Mrs. Honeychurch disapproved of music, declaring that it always left her daughter peevish, unpractical, and touchy. "Nothing ever happens to me," she reflected, as she entered the Piazza Signoria and looked nonchalantly at its marvels, now fairly familiar to her. The great square was in shadow; the sunshine had come too late to strike it. Neptune was already unsubstantial in the twilight, half god, half ghost, and his fountain plashed dreamily to the men and satyrs who idled together on its marge. The Loggia showed as the triple entrance of a cave, wherein many a deity, shadowy, but immortal, looking forth upon the arrivals and departures of mankind. It was the hour of unreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!"<|quote|>She stopped with her hand on her heart.</|quote|>"You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, | bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!"<|quote|>She stopped with her hand on her heart.</|quote|>"You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled | A Room With A View |
"You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." | George Emerson | her hand on her heart.<|quote|>"You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone."</|quote|>"Yes, I am, thank you | "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart.<|quote|>"You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone."</|quote|>"Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you | him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart.<|quote|>"You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone."</|quote|>"Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She | been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart.<|quote|>"You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone."</|quote|>"Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when | some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart.<|quote|>"You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone."</|quote|>"Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a | been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart.<|quote|>"You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone."</|quote|>"Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has | This afternoon she was peculiarly restive. She would really like to do something of which her well-wishers disapproved. As she might not go on the electric tram, she went to Alinari's shop. There she bought a photograph of Botticelli's "Birth of Venus." Venus, being a pity, spoilt the picture, otherwise so charming, and Miss Bartlett had persuaded her to do without it. (A pity in art of course signified the nude.) Giorgione's "Tempesta," the "Idolino," some of the Sistine frescoes and the Apoxyomenos, were added to it. She felt a little calmer then, and bought Fra Angelico's "Coronation," Giotto's "Ascension of St. John," some Della Robbia babies, and some Guido Reni Madonnas. For her taste was catholic, and she extended uncritical approval to every well-known name. But though she spent nearly seven lire, the gates of liberty seemed still unopened. She was conscious of her discontent; it was new to her to be conscious of it. "The world," she thought, "is certainly full of beautiful things, if only I could come across them." It was not surprising that Mrs. Honeychurch disapproved of music, declaring that it always left her daughter peevish, unpractical, and touchy. "Nothing ever happens to me," she reflected, as she entered the Piazza Signoria and looked nonchalantly at its marvels, now fairly familiar to her. The great square was in shadow; the sunshine had come too late to strike it. Neptune was already unsubstantial in the twilight, half god, half ghost, and his fountain plashed dreamily to the men and satyrs who idled together on its marge. The Loggia showed as the triple entrance of a cave, wherein many a deity, shadowy, but immortal, looking forth upon the arrivals and departures of mankind. It was the hour of unreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart.<|quote|>"You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone."</|quote|>"Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. | him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart.<|quote|>"You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone."</|quote|>"Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean | A Room With A View |
"Yes, I am, thank you so very much." | Lucy | fit to go home alone."<|quote|>"Yes, I am, thank you so very much."</|quote|>"No, you aren't. You'd go | "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone."<|quote|>"Yes, I am, thank you so very much."</|quote|>"No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But | them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone."<|quote|>"Yes, I am, thank you so very much."</|quote|>"No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move | am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone."<|quote|>"Yes, I am, thank you so very much."</|quote|>"No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the | her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone."<|quote|>"Yes, I am, thank you so very much."</|quote|>"No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And | "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone."<|quote|>"Yes, I am, thank you so very much."</|quote|>"No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. | to do something of which her well-wishers disapproved. As she might not go on the electric tram, she went to Alinari's shop. There she bought a photograph of Botticelli's "Birth of Venus." Venus, being a pity, spoilt the picture, otherwise so charming, and Miss Bartlett had persuaded her to do without it. (A pity in art of course signified the nude.) Giorgione's "Tempesta," the "Idolino," some of the Sistine frescoes and the Apoxyomenos, were added to it. She felt a little calmer then, and bought Fra Angelico's "Coronation," Giotto's "Ascension of St. John," some Della Robbia babies, and some Guido Reni Madonnas. For her taste was catholic, and she extended uncritical approval to every well-known name. But though she spent nearly seven lire, the gates of liberty seemed still unopened. She was conscious of her discontent; it was new to her to be conscious of it. "The world," she thought, "is certainly full of beautiful things, if only I could come across them." It was not surprising that Mrs. Honeychurch disapproved of music, declaring that it always left her daughter peevish, unpractical, and touchy. "Nothing ever happens to me," she reflected, as she entered the Piazza Signoria and looked nonchalantly at its marvels, now fairly familiar to her. The great square was in shadow; the sunshine had come too late to strike it. Neptune was already unsubstantial in the twilight, half god, half ghost, and his fountain plashed dreamily to the men and satyrs who idled together on its marge. The Loggia showed as the triple entrance of a cave, wherein many a deity, shadowy, but immortal, looking forth upon the arrivals and departures of mankind. It was the hour of unreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone."<|quote|>"Yes, I am, thank you so very much."</|quote|>"No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How | sufficient was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone."<|quote|>"Yes, I am, thank you so very much."</|quote|>"No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my | A Room With A View |
"No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." | George Emerson | thank you so very much."<|quote|>"No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were."</|quote|>"But I had rather--" "Then | home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much."<|quote|>"No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were."</|quote|>"But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." | as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much."<|quote|>"No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were."</|quote|>"But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw | His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much."<|quote|>"No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were."</|quote|>"But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" | to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much."<|quote|>"No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were."</|quote|>"But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very | one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much."<|quote|>"No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were."</|quote|>"But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something | As she might not go on the electric tram, she went to Alinari's shop. There she bought a photograph of Botticelli's "Birth of Venus." Venus, being a pity, spoilt the picture, otherwise so charming, and Miss Bartlett had persuaded her to do without it. (A pity in art of course signified the nude.) Giorgione's "Tempesta," the "Idolino," some of the Sistine frescoes and the Apoxyomenos, were added to it. She felt a little calmer then, and bought Fra Angelico's "Coronation," Giotto's "Ascension of St. John," some Della Robbia babies, and some Guido Reni Madonnas. For her taste was catholic, and she extended uncritical approval to every well-known name. But though she spent nearly seven lire, the gates of liberty seemed still unopened. She was conscious of her discontent; it was new to her to be conscious of it. "The world," she thought, "is certainly full of beautiful things, if only I could come across them." It was not surprising that Mrs. Honeychurch disapproved of music, declaring that it always left her daughter peevish, unpractical, and touchy. "Nothing ever happens to me," she reflected, as she entered the Piazza Signoria and looked nonchalantly at its marvels, now fairly familiar to her. The great square was in shadow; the sunshine had come too late to strike it. Neptune was already unsubstantial in the twilight, half god, half ghost, and his fountain plashed dreamily to the men and satyrs who idled together on its marge. The Loggia showed as the triple entrance of a cave, wherein many a deity, shadowy, but immortal, looking forth upon the arrivals and departures of mankind. It was the hour of unreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much."<|quote|>"No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were."</|quote|>"But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns | the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much."<|quote|>"No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were."</|quote|>"But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in | A Room With A View |
"But I had rather--" | Lucy | go openly if you were."<|quote|>"But I had rather--"</|quote|>"Then I don't fetch your | much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were."<|quote|>"But I had rather--"</|quote|>"Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be | the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were."<|quote|>"But I had rather--"</|quote|>"Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, | exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were."<|quote|>"But I had rather--"</|quote|>"Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, | I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were."<|quote|>"But I had rather--"</|quote|>"Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave | He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were."<|quote|>"But I had rather--"</|quote|>"Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she | she went to Alinari's shop. There she bought a photograph of Botticelli's "Birth of Venus." Venus, being a pity, spoilt the picture, otherwise so charming, and Miss Bartlett had persuaded her to do without it. (A pity in art of course signified the nude.) Giorgione's "Tempesta," the "Idolino," some of the Sistine frescoes and the Apoxyomenos, were added to it. She felt a little calmer then, and bought Fra Angelico's "Coronation," Giotto's "Ascension of St. John," some Della Robbia babies, and some Guido Reni Madonnas. For her taste was catholic, and she extended uncritical approval to every well-known name. But though she spent nearly seven lire, the gates of liberty seemed still unopened. She was conscious of her discontent; it was new to her to be conscious of it. "The world," she thought, "is certainly full of beautiful things, if only I could come across them." It was not surprising that Mrs. Honeychurch disapproved of music, declaring that it always left her daughter peevish, unpractical, and touchy. "Nothing ever happens to me," she reflected, as she entered the Piazza Signoria and looked nonchalantly at its marvels, now fairly familiar to her. The great square was in shadow; the sunshine had come too late to strike it. Neptune was already unsubstantial in the twilight, half god, half ghost, and his fountain plashed dreamily to the men and satyrs who idled together on its marge. The Loggia showed as the triple entrance of a cave, wherein many a deity, shadowy, but immortal, looking forth upon the arrivals and departures of mankind. It was the hour of unreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were."<|quote|>"But I had rather--"</|quote|>"Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" | mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were."<|quote|>"But I had rather--"</|quote|>"Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies | A Room With A View |
"Then I don't fetch your photographs." | George Emerson | were." "But I had rather--"<|quote|>"Then I don't fetch your photographs."</|quote|>"I had rather be alone." | You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--"<|quote|>"Then I don't fetch your photographs."</|quote|>"I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man | maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--"<|quote|>"Then I don't fetch your photographs."</|quote|>"I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The | "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--"<|quote|>"Then I don't fetch your photographs."</|quote|>"I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, | "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--"<|quote|>"Then I don't fetch your photographs."</|quote|>"I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. | towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--"<|quote|>"Then I don't fetch your photographs."</|quote|>"I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," | shop. There she bought a photograph of Botticelli's "Birth of Venus." Venus, being a pity, spoilt the picture, otherwise so charming, and Miss Bartlett had persuaded her to do without it. (A pity in art of course signified the nude.) Giorgione's "Tempesta," the "Idolino," some of the Sistine frescoes and the Apoxyomenos, were added to it. She felt a little calmer then, and bought Fra Angelico's "Coronation," Giotto's "Ascension of St. John," some Della Robbia babies, and some Guido Reni Madonnas. For her taste was catholic, and she extended uncritical approval to every well-known name. But though she spent nearly seven lire, the gates of liberty seemed still unopened. She was conscious of her discontent; it was new to her to be conscious of it. "The world," she thought, "is certainly full of beautiful things, if only I could come across them." It was not surprising that Mrs. Honeychurch disapproved of music, declaring that it always left her daughter peevish, unpractical, and touchy. "Nothing ever happens to me," she reflected, as she entered the Piazza Signoria and looked nonchalantly at its marvels, now fairly familiar to her. The great square was in shadow; the sunshine had come too late to strike it. Neptune was already unsubstantial in the twilight, half god, half ghost, and his fountain plashed dreamily to the men and satyrs who idled together on its marge. The Loggia showed as the triple entrance of a cave, wherein many a deity, shadowy, but immortal, looking forth upon the arrivals and departures of mankind. It was the hour of unreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--"<|quote|>"Then I don't fetch your photographs."</|quote|>"I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to | with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--"<|quote|>"Then I don't fetch your photographs."</|quote|>"I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do | A Room With A View |
"I had rather be alone." | Lucy | I don't fetch your photographs."<|quote|>"I had rather be alone."</|quote|>He said imperiously: "The man | "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs."<|quote|>"I had rather be alone."</|quote|>He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably | towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs."<|quote|>"I had rather be alone."</|quote|>He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the | I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs."<|quote|>"I had rather be alone."</|quote|>He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. | you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs."<|quote|>"I had rather be alone."</|quote|>He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians | interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs."<|quote|>"I had rather be alone."</|quote|>He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean | of Botticelli's "Birth of Venus." Venus, being a pity, spoilt the picture, otherwise so charming, and Miss Bartlett had persuaded her to do without it. (A pity in art of course signified the nude.) Giorgione's "Tempesta," the "Idolino," some of the Sistine frescoes and the Apoxyomenos, were added to it. She felt a little calmer then, and bought Fra Angelico's "Coronation," Giotto's "Ascension of St. John," some Della Robbia babies, and some Guido Reni Madonnas. For her taste was catholic, and she extended uncritical approval to every well-known name. But though she spent nearly seven lire, the gates of liberty seemed still unopened. She was conscious of her discontent; it was new to her to be conscious of it. "The world," she thought, "is certainly full of beautiful things, if only I could come across them." It was not surprising that Mrs. Honeychurch disapproved of music, declaring that it always left her daughter peevish, unpractical, and touchy. "Nothing ever happens to me," she reflected, as she entered the Piazza Signoria and looked nonchalantly at its marvels, now fairly familiar to her. The great square was in shadow; the sunshine had come too late to strike it. Neptune was already unsubstantial in the twilight, half god, half ghost, and his fountain plashed dreamily to the men and satyrs who idled together on its marge. The Loggia showed as the triple entrance of a cave, wherein many a deity, shadowy, but immortal, looking forth upon the arrivals and departures of mankind. It was the hour of unreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs."<|quote|>"I had rather be alone."</|quote|>He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was | He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs."<|quote|>"I had rather be alone."</|quote|>He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do | A Room With A View |
He said imperiously: | No speaker | "I had rather be alone."<|quote|>He said imperiously:</|quote|>"The man is dead--the man | I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone."<|quote|>He said imperiously:</|quote|>"The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down | She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone."<|quote|>He said imperiously:</|quote|>"The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the | out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone."<|quote|>He said imperiously:</|quote|>"The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and | And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone."<|quote|>He said imperiously:</|quote|>"The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but | an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone."<|quote|>He said imperiously:</|quote|>"The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out | Venus, being a pity, spoilt the picture, otherwise so charming, and Miss Bartlett had persuaded her to do without it. (A pity in art of course signified the nude.) Giorgione's "Tempesta," the "Idolino," some of the Sistine frescoes and the Apoxyomenos, were added to it. She felt a little calmer then, and bought Fra Angelico's "Coronation," Giotto's "Ascension of St. John," some Della Robbia babies, and some Guido Reni Madonnas. For her taste was catholic, and she extended uncritical approval to every well-known name. But though she spent nearly seven lire, the gates of liberty seemed still unopened. She was conscious of her discontent; it was new to her to be conscious of it. "The world," she thought, "is certainly full of beautiful things, if only I could come across them." It was not surprising that Mrs. Honeychurch disapproved of music, declaring that it always left her daughter peevish, unpractical, and touchy. "Nothing ever happens to me," she reflected, as she entered the Piazza Signoria and looked nonchalantly at its marvels, now fairly familiar to her. The great square was in shadow; the sunshine had come too late to strike it. Neptune was already unsubstantial in the twilight, half god, half ghost, and his fountain plashed dreamily to the men and satyrs who idled together on its marge. The Loggia showed as the triple entrance of a cave, wherein many a deity, shadowy, but immortal, looking forth upon the arrivals and departures of mankind. It was the hour of unreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone."<|quote|>He said imperiously:</|quote|>"The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall | tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone."<|quote|>He said imperiously:</|quote|>"The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I | A Room With A View |
"The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." | George Emerson | be alone." He said imperiously:<|quote|>"The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested."</|quote|>She was bewildered, and obeyed | your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously:<|quote|>"The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested."</|quote|>She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till | her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously:<|quote|>"The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested."</|quote|>She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson | the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously:<|quote|>"The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested."</|quote|>She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke | to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously:<|quote|>"The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested."</|quote|>She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the | for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously:<|quote|>"The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested."</|quote|>She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had | pity, spoilt the picture, otherwise so charming, and Miss Bartlett had persuaded her to do without it. (A pity in art of course signified the nude.) Giorgione's "Tempesta," the "Idolino," some of the Sistine frescoes and the Apoxyomenos, were added to it. She felt a little calmer then, and bought Fra Angelico's "Coronation," Giotto's "Ascension of St. John," some Della Robbia babies, and some Guido Reni Madonnas. For her taste was catholic, and she extended uncritical approval to every well-known name. But though she spent nearly seven lire, the gates of liberty seemed still unopened. She was conscious of her discontent; it was new to her to be conscious of it. "The world," she thought, "is certainly full of beautiful things, if only I could come across them." It was not surprising that Mrs. Honeychurch disapproved of music, declaring that it always left her daughter peevish, unpractical, and touchy. "Nothing ever happens to me," she reflected, as she entered the Piazza Signoria and looked nonchalantly at its marvels, now fairly familiar to her. The great square was in shadow; the sunshine had come too late to strike it. Neptune was already unsubstantial in the twilight, half god, half ghost, and his fountain plashed dreamily to the men and satyrs who idled together on its marge. The Loggia showed as the triple entrance of a cave, wherein many a deity, shadowy, but immortal, looking forth upon the arrivals and departures of mankind. It was the hour of unreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously:<|quote|>"The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested."</|quote|>She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall | out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously:<|quote|>"The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested."</|quote|>She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed | A Room With A View |
She was bewildered, and obeyed him. | No speaker | down till you are rested."<|quote|>She was bewildered, and obeyed him.</|quote|>"And don't move till I | man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested."<|quote|>She was bewildered, and obeyed him.</|quote|>"And don't move till I come back." In the distance | alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested."<|quote|>She was bewildered, and obeyed him.</|quote|>"And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy | fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested."<|quote|>She was bewildered, and obeyed him.</|quote|>"And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became | stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested."<|quote|>She was bewildered, and obeyed him.</|quote|>"And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had | came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested."<|quote|>She was bewildered, and obeyed him.</|quote|>"And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. | do without it. (A pity in art of course signified the nude.) Giorgione's "Tempesta," the "Idolino," some of the Sistine frescoes and the Apoxyomenos, were added to it. She felt a little calmer then, and bought Fra Angelico's "Coronation," Giotto's "Ascension of St. John," some Della Robbia babies, and some Guido Reni Madonnas. For her taste was catholic, and she extended uncritical approval to every well-known name. But though she spent nearly seven lire, the gates of liberty seemed still unopened. She was conscious of her discontent; it was new to her to be conscious of it. "The world," she thought, "is certainly full of beautiful things, if only I could come across them." It was not surprising that Mrs. Honeychurch disapproved of music, declaring that it always left her daughter peevish, unpractical, and touchy. "Nothing ever happens to me," she reflected, as she entered the Piazza Signoria and looked nonchalantly at its marvels, now fairly familiar to her. The great square was in shadow; the sunshine had come too late to strike it. Neptune was already unsubstantial in the twilight, half god, half ghost, and his fountain plashed dreamily to the men and satyrs who idled together on its marge. The Loggia showed as the triple entrance of a cave, wherein many a deity, shadowy, but immortal, looking forth upon the arrivals and departures of mankind. It was the hour of unreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested."<|quote|>She was bewildered, and obeyed him.</|quote|>"And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning | desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested."<|quote|>She was bewildered, and obeyed him.</|quote|>"And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting | A Room With A View |
"And don't move till I come back." | George Emerson | was bewildered, and obeyed him.<|quote|>"And don't move till I come back."</|quote|>In the distance she saw | till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him.<|quote|>"And don't move till I come back."</|quote|>In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such | so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him.<|quote|>"And don't move till I come back."</|quote|>In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, | kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him.<|quote|>"And don't move till I come back."</|quote|>In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had | to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him.<|quote|>"And don't move till I come back."</|quote|>In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did | down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him.<|quote|>"And don't move till I come back."</|quote|>In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before | art of course signified the nude.) Giorgione's "Tempesta," the "Idolino," some of the Sistine frescoes and the Apoxyomenos, were added to it. She felt a little calmer then, and bought Fra Angelico's "Coronation," Giotto's "Ascension of St. John," some Della Robbia babies, and some Guido Reni Madonnas. For her taste was catholic, and she extended uncritical approval to every well-known name. But though she spent nearly seven lire, the gates of liberty seemed still unopened. She was conscious of her discontent; it was new to her to be conscious of it. "The world," she thought, "is certainly full of beautiful things, if only I could come across them." It was not surprising that Mrs. Honeychurch disapproved of music, declaring that it always left her daughter peevish, unpractical, and touchy. "Nothing ever happens to me," she reflected, as she entered the Piazza Signoria and looked nonchalantly at its marvels, now fairly familiar to her. The great square was in shadow; the sunshine had come too late to strike it. Neptune was already unsubstantial in the twilight, half god, half ghost, and his fountain plashed dreamily to the men and satyrs who idled together on its marge. The Loggia showed as the triple entrance of a cave, wherein many a deity, shadowy, but immortal, looking forth upon the arrivals and departures of mankind. It was the hour of unreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him.<|quote|>"And don't move till I come back."</|quote|>In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated | chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him.<|quote|>"And don't move till I come back."</|quote|>In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face | A Room With A View |
In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, | No speaker | move till I come back."<|quote|>In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her,</|quote|>"Oh, what have I done?" | and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back."<|quote|>In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her,</|quote|>"Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as | go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back."<|quote|>In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her,</|quote|>"Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had | his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back."<|quote|>In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her,</|quote|>"Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to | to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back."<|quote|>In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her,</|quote|>"Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her | A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back."<|quote|>In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her,</|quote|>"Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her | "Tempesta," the "Idolino," some of the Sistine frescoes and the Apoxyomenos, were added to it. She felt a little calmer then, and bought Fra Angelico's "Coronation," Giotto's "Ascension of St. John," some Della Robbia babies, and some Guido Reni Madonnas. For her taste was catholic, and she extended uncritical approval to every well-known name. But though she spent nearly seven lire, the gates of liberty seemed still unopened. She was conscious of her discontent; it was new to her to be conscious of it. "The world," she thought, "is certainly full of beautiful things, if only I could come across them." It was not surprising that Mrs. Honeychurch disapproved of music, declaring that it always left her daughter peevish, unpractical, and touchy. "Nothing ever happens to me," she reflected, as she entered the Piazza Signoria and looked nonchalantly at its marvels, now fairly familiar to her. The great square was in shadow; the sunshine had come too late to strike it. Neptune was already unsubstantial in the twilight, half god, half ghost, and his fountain plashed dreamily to the men and satyrs who idled together on its marge. The Loggia showed as the triple entrance of a cave, wherein many a deity, shadowy, but immortal, looking forth upon the arrivals and departures of mankind. It was the hour of unreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back."<|quote|>In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her,</|quote|>"Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it | of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back."<|quote|>In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her,</|quote|>"Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly | A Room With A View |
"Oh, what have I done?" | Lucy | the thought occurred to her,<|quote|>"Oh, what have I done?"</|quote|>"--the thought that she, as | from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her,<|quote|>"Oh, what have I done?"</|quote|>"--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, | In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her,<|quote|>"Oh, what have I done?"</|quote|>"--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes | go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her,<|quote|>"Oh, what have I done?"</|quote|>"--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very | extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her,<|quote|>"Oh, what have I done?"</|quote|>"--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for | caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her,<|quote|>"Oh, what have I done?"</|quote|>"--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have | to every well-known name. But though she spent nearly seven lire, the gates of liberty seemed still unopened. She was conscious of her discontent; it was new to her to be conscious of it. "The world," she thought, "is certainly full of beautiful things, if only I could come across them." It was not surprising that Mrs. Honeychurch disapproved of music, declaring that it always left her daughter peevish, unpractical, and touchy. "Nothing ever happens to me," she reflected, as she entered the Piazza Signoria and looked nonchalantly at its marvels, now fairly familiar to her. The great square was in shadow; the sunshine had come too late to strike it. Neptune was already unsubstantial in the twilight, half god, half ghost, and his fountain plashed dreamily to the men and satyrs who idled together on its marge. The Loggia showed as the triple entrance of a cave, wherein many a deity, shadowy, but immortal, looking forth upon the arrivals and departures of mankind. It was the hour of unreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her,<|quote|>"Oh, what have I done?"</|quote|>"--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable | might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her,<|quote|>"Oh, what have I done?"</|quote|>"--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he | A Room With A View |
"--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. | No speaker | "Oh, what have I done?"<|quote|>"--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him.</|quote|>"And the murderer tried to | the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?"<|quote|>"--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him.</|quote|>"And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very | creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?"<|quote|>"--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him.</|quote|>"And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something | "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?"<|quote|>"--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him.</|quote|>"And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that | exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?"<|quote|>"--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him.</|quote|>"And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting | grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?"<|quote|>"--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him.</|quote|>"And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, | though she spent nearly seven lire, the gates of liberty seemed still unopened. She was conscious of her discontent; it was new to her to be conscious of it. "The world," she thought, "is certainly full of beautiful things, if only I could come across them." It was not surprising that Mrs. Honeychurch disapproved of music, declaring that it always left her daughter peevish, unpractical, and touchy. "Nothing ever happens to me," she reflected, as she entered the Piazza Signoria and looked nonchalantly at its marvels, now fairly familiar to her. The great square was in shadow; the sunshine had come too late to strike it. Neptune was already unsubstantial in the twilight, half god, half ghost, and his fountain plashed dreamily to the men and satyrs who idled together on its marge. The Loggia showed as the triple entrance of a cave, wherein many a deity, shadowy, but immortal, looking forth upon the arrivals and departures of mankind. It was the hour of unreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?"<|quote|>"--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him.</|quote|>"And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. | darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?"<|quote|>"--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him.</|quote|>"And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her | A Room With A View |
"And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" | Lucy | to them; they refused him.<|quote|>"And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?"</|quote|>He had thrown something into | Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him.<|quote|>"And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?"</|quote|>He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you | over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him.<|quote|>"And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?"</|quote|>He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and | the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him.<|quote|>"And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?"</|quote|>He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The | much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him.<|quote|>"And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?"</|quote|>He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some | began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him.<|quote|>"And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?"</|quote|>He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It | her. The great square was in shadow; the sunshine had come too late to strike it. Neptune was already unsubstantial in the twilight, half god, half ghost, and his fountain plashed dreamily to the men and satyrs who idled together on its marge. The Loggia showed as the triple entrance of a cave, wherein many a deity, shadowy, but immortal, looking forth upon the arrivals and departures of mankind. It was the hour of unreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him.<|quote|>"And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?"</|quote|>He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her | A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him.<|quote|>"And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?"</|quote|>He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us | A Room With A View |
He had thrown something into the stream. | No speaker | the Pitti yesterday--What was that?"<|quote|>He had thrown something into the stream.</|quote|>"What did you throw in?" | cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?"<|quote|>He had thrown something into the stream.</|quote|>"What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he | them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?"<|quote|>He had thrown something into the stream.</|quote|>"What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious | she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?"<|quote|>He had thrown something into the stream.</|quote|>"What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did | obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?"<|quote|>He had thrown something into the stream.</|quote|>"What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you | his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?"<|quote|>He had thrown something into the stream.</|quote|>"What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to | as the triple entrance of a cave, wherein many a deity, shadowy, but immortal, looking forth upon the arrivals and departures of mankind. It was the hour of unreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?"<|quote|>He had thrown something into the stream.</|quote|>"What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all | his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?"<|quote|>He had thrown something into the stream.</|quote|>"What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might | A Room With A View |
"What did you throw in?" | Lucy | thrown something into the stream.<|quote|>"What did you throw in?"</|quote|>"Things I didn't want," he | yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream.<|quote|>"What did you throw in?"</|quote|>"Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" | tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream.<|quote|>"What did you throw in?"</|quote|>"Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards | that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream.<|quote|>"What did you throw in?"</|quote|>"Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one | come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream.<|quote|>"What did you throw in?"</|quote|>"Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." | pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream.<|quote|>"What did you throw in?"</|quote|>"Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such | wherein many a deity, shadowy, but immortal, looking forth upon the arrivals and departures of mankind. It was the hour of unreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream.<|quote|>"What did you throw in?"</|quote|>"Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too | looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream.<|quote|>"What did you throw in?"</|quote|>"Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, | A Room With A View |
"Things I didn't want," | George Emerson | "What did you throw in?"<|quote|>"Things I didn't want,"</|quote|>he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" | thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?"<|quote|>"Things I didn't want,"</|quote|>he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" | say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?"<|quote|>"Things I didn't want,"</|quote|>he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first | five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?"<|quote|>"Things I didn't want,"</|quote|>he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it | she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?"<|quote|>"Things I didn't want,"</|quote|>he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to | The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?"<|quote|>"Things I didn't want,"</|quote|>he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would | but immortal, looking forth upon the arrivals and departures of mankind. It was the hour of unreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?"<|quote|>"Things I didn't want,"</|quote|>he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know | her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?"<|quote|>"Things I didn't want,"</|quote|>he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." | A Room With A View |
he said crossly. | No speaker | in?" "Things I didn't want,"<|quote|>he said crossly.</|quote|>"Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are | stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want,"<|quote|>he said crossly.</|quote|>"Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. | are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want,"<|quote|>he said crossly.</|quote|>"Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were | strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want,"<|quote|>he said crossly.</|quote|>"Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that | black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want,"<|quote|>he said crossly.</|quote|>"Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She | fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want,"<|quote|>he said crossly.</|quote|>"Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no | upon the arrivals and departures of mankind. It was the hour of unreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want,"<|quote|>he said crossly.</|quote|>"Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was | She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want,"<|quote|>he said crossly.</|quote|>"Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood | A Room With A View |
"Mr. Emerson!" | Lucy | didn't want," he said crossly.<|quote|>"Mr. Emerson!"</|quote|>"Well?" "Where are the photographs?" | you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly.<|quote|>"Mr. Emerson!"</|quote|>"Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe | up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly.<|quote|>"Mr. Emerson!"</|quote|>"Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with | soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly.<|quote|>"Mr. Emerson!"</|quote|>"Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should | as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly.<|quote|>"Mr. Emerson!"</|quote|>"Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and | ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly.<|quote|>"Mr. Emerson!"</|quote|>"Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by | and departures of mankind. It was the hour of unreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly.<|quote|>"Mr. Emerson!"</|quote|>"Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right | but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly.<|quote|>"Mr. Emerson!"</|quote|>"Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless | A Room With A View |
"Well?" | George Emerson | he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!"<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>"Where are the photographs?" He | in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!"<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>"Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it | the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!"<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>"Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. | the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!"<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>"Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go | in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!"<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>"Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant | The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!"<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>"Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle | of mankind. It was the hour of unreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!"<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>"Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or | Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!"<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>"Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; | A Room With A View |
"Where are the photographs?" | Lucy | said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?"<|quote|>"Where are the photographs?"</|quote|>He was silent. "I believe | "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?"<|quote|>"Where are the photographs?"</|quote|>He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that | police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?"<|quote|>"Where are the photographs?"</|quote|>He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've | horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?"<|quote|>"Where are the photographs?"</|quote|>He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I | dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?"<|quote|>"Where are the photographs?"</|quote|>He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the | whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?"<|quote|>"Where are the photographs?"</|quote|>He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, | mankind. It was the hour of unreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?"<|quote|>"Where are the photographs?"</|quote|>He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next | distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?"<|quote|>"Where are the photographs?"</|quote|>He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was | A Room With A View |
He was silent. | No speaker | "Well?" "Where are the photographs?"<|quote|>He was silent.</|quote|>"I believe it was my | he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?"<|quote|>He was silent.</|quote|>"I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." | saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?"<|quote|>He was silent.</|quote|>"I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and | rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?"<|quote|>He was silent.</|quote|>"I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I | had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?"<|quote|>He was silent.</|quote|>"I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the | and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?"<|quote|>He was silent.</|quote|>"I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even | hour of unreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?"<|quote|>He was silent.</|quote|>"I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took | He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?"<|quote|>He was silent.</|quote|>"I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention | A Room With A View |
"I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." | Lucy | the photographs?" He was silent.<|quote|>"I believe it was my photographs that you threw away."</|quote|>"I didn't know what to | "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent.<|quote|>"I believe it was my photographs that you threw away."</|quote|>"I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, | know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent.<|quote|>"I believe it was my photographs that you threw away."</|quote|>"I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering | assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent.<|quote|>"I believe it was my photographs that you threw away."</|quote|>"I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy | reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent.<|quote|>"I believe it was my photographs that you threw away."</|quote|>"I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic | its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent.<|quote|>"I believe it was my photographs that you threw away."</|quote|>"I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. | hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent.<|quote|>"I believe it was my photographs that you threw away."</|quote|>"I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had | you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent.<|quote|>"I believe it was my photographs that you threw away."</|quote|>"I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And | A Room With A View |
"I didn't know what to do with them," | George Emerson | photographs that you threw away."<|quote|>"I didn't know what to do with them,"</|quote|>he cried, and his voice | "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away."<|quote|>"I didn't know what to do with them,"</|quote|>he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious | my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away."<|quote|>"I didn't know what to do with them,"</|quote|>he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. | walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away."<|quote|>"I didn't know what to do with them,"</|quote|>he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has | How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away."<|quote|>"I didn't know what to do with them,"</|quote|>he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of | might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away."<|quote|>"I didn't know what to do with them,"</|quote|>he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his | person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away."<|quote|>"I didn't know what to do with them,"</|quote|>he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to | one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away."<|quote|>"I didn't know what to do with them,"</|quote|>he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. | A Room With A View |
he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. | No speaker | what to do with them,"<|quote|>he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time.</|quote|>"They were covered with blood. | threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them,"<|quote|>he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time.</|quote|>"They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told | yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them,"<|quote|>he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time.</|quote|>"They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed | cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them,"<|quote|>he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time.</|quote|>"They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that | he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them,"<|quote|>he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time.</|quote|>"They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He | am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them,"<|quote|>he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time.</|quote|>"They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that | a place might think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them,"<|quote|>he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time.</|quote|>"They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? | by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them,"<|quote|>he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time.</|quote|>"They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall | A Room With A View |
"They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." | George Emerson | him for the first time.<|quote|>"They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them."</|quote|>He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." | boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time.<|quote|>"They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them."</|quote|>He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the | said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time.<|quote|>"They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them."</|quote|>He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For | gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time.<|quote|>"They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them."</|quote|>He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if | she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time.<|quote|>"They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them."</|quote|>He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," | photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time.<|quote|>"They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them."</|quote|>He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and | wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time.<|quote|>"They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them."</|quote|>He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing | He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time.<|quote|>"They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them."</|quote|>He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and | A Room With A View |
He pointed down-stream. | No speaker | what to do with them."<|quote|>He pointed down-stream.</|quote|>"They've gone." The river swirled | making conversation I was wondering what to do with them."<|quote|>He pointed down-stream.</|quote|>"They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did | do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them."<|quote|>He pointed down-stream.</|quote|>"They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has | at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them."<|quote|>He pointed down-stream.</|quote|>"They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed | She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them."<|quote|>He pointed down-stream.</|quote|>"They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but | kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them."<|quote|>He pointed down-stream.</|quote|>"They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, | longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them."<|quote|>He pointed down-stream.</|quote|>"They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, | Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them."<|quote|>He pointed down-stream.</|quote|>"They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the | A Room With A View |
"They've gone." | George Emerson | with them." He pointed down-stream.<|quote|>"They've gone."</|quote|>The river swirled under the | was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream.<|quote|>"They've gone."</|quote|>The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them | he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream.<|quote|>"They've gone."</|quote|>The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I | yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream.<|quote|>"They've gone."</|quote|>The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in | the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream.<|quote|>"They've gone."</|quote|>The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt | them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream.<|quote|>"They've gone."</|quote|>The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as | earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream.<|quote|>"They've gone."</|quote|>The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other | smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream.<|quote|>"They've gone."</|quote|>The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" | A Room With A View |
The river swirled under the bridge, | No speaker | He pointed down-stream. "They've gone."<|quote|>The river swirled under the bridge,</|quote|>"I did mind them so, | what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone."<|quote|>The river swirled under the bridge,</|quote|>"I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, | and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone."<|quote|>The river swirled under the bridge,</|quote|>"I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. | that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone."<|quote|>The river swirled under the bridge,</|quote|>"I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to | character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone."<|quote|>The river swirled under the bridge,</|quote|>"I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, | added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone."<|quote|>The river swirled under the bridge,</|quote|>"I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the | some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone."<|quote|>The river swirled under the bridge,</|quote|>"I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett | day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone."<|quote|>The river swirled under the bridge,</|quote|>"I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of | A Room With A View |
"I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." | George Emerson | river swirled under the bridge,<|quote|>"I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me."</|quote|>Then the boy verged into | pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge,<|quote|>"I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me."</|quote|>Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous | an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge,<|quote|>"I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me."</|quote|>Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. | the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge,<|quote|>"I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me."</|quote|>Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at | the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge,<|quote|>"I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me."</|quote|>Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I | as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge,<|quote|>"I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me."</|quote|>Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character | tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen. Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge,<|quote|>"I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me."</|quote|>Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I | man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge,<|quote|>"I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me."</|quote|>Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would | A Room With A View |
Then the boy verged into a man. | No speaker | mean that they frightened me."<|quote|>Then the boy verged into a man.</|quote|>"For something tremendous has happened; | don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me."<|quote|>Then the boy verged into a man.</|quote|>"For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without | I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me."<|quote|>Then the boy verged into a man.</|quote|>"For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as | you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me."<|quote|>Then the boy verged into a man.</|quote|>"For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; | inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me."<|quote|>Then the boy verged into a man.</|quote|>"For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention | heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me."<|quote|>Then the boy verged into a man.</|quote|>"For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the | had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me."<|quote|>Then the boy verged into a man.</|quote|>"For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said | world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me."<|quote|>Then the boy verged into a man.</|quote|>"For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends | A Room With A View |
"For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." | George Emerson | boy verged into a man.<|quote|>"For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died."</|quote|>Something warned Lucy that she | they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man.<|quote|>"For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died."</|quote|>Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has | them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man.<|quote|>"For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died."</|quote|>Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They | to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man.<|quote|>"For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died."</|quote|>Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I | the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man.<|quote|>"For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died."</|quote|>Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would | to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man.<|quote|>"For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died."</|quote|>Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one | lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man.<|quote|>"For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died."</|quote|>Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of | dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man.<|quote|>"For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died."</|quote|>Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River | A Room With A View |
Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. | No speaker | that a man has died."<|quote|>Something warned Lucy that she must stop him.</|quote|>"It has happened," he repeated, | getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died."<|quote|>Something warned Lucy that she must stop him.</|quote|>"It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find | so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died."<|quote|>Something warned Lucy that she must stop him.</|quote|>"It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and | for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died."<|quote|>Something warned Lucy that she must stop him.</|quote|>"It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own | very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died."<|quote|>Something warned Lucy that she must stop him.</|quote|>"It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any | were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died."<|quote|>Something warned Lucy that she must stop him.</|quote|>"It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety | chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died."<|quote|>Something warned Lucy that she must stop him.</|quote|>"It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now | my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died."<|quote|>Something warned Lucy that she must stop him.</|quote|>"It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or | A Room With A View |
"It has happened," | George Emerson | that she must stop him.<|quote|>"It has happened,"</|quote|>he repeated, "and I mean | has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him.<|quote|>"It has happened,"</|quote|>he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it | go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him.<|quote|>"It has happened,"</|quote|>he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows | blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him.<|quote|>"It has happened,"</|quote|>he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was | the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him.<|quote|>"It has happened,"</|quote|>he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river | fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him.<|quote|>"It has happened,"</|quote|>he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to | a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him.<|quote|>"It has happened,"</|quote|>he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But | them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him.<|quote|>"It has happened,"</|quote|>he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to | A Room With A View |
he repeated, | No speaker | stop him. "It has happened,"<|quote|>he repeated,</|quote|>"and I mean to find | warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened,"<|quote|>he repeated,</|quote|>"and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. | the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened,"<|quote|>he repeated,</|quote|>"and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the | glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened,"<|quote|>he repeated,</|quote|>"and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so | Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened,"<|quote|>he repeated,</|quote|>"and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing | "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened,"<|quote|>he repeated,</|quote|>"and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. | interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened,"<|quote|>he repeated,</|quote|>"and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she | I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened,"<|quote|>he repeated,</|quote|>"and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his | A Room With A View |
"and I mean to find out what it is." | George Emerson | "It has happened," he repeated,<|quote|>"and I mean to find out what it is."</|quote|>"Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards | that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated,<|quote|>"and I mean to find out what it is."</|quote|>"Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she | don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated,<|quote|>"and I mean to find out what it is."</|quote|>"Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is | told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated,<|quote|>"and I mean to find out what it is."</|quote|>"Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot | saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated,<|quote|>"and I mean to find out what it is."</|quote|>"Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He | rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated,<|quote|>"and I mean to find out what it is."</|quote|>"Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to | if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated,<|quote|>"and I mean to find out what it is."</|quote|>"Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice | in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated,<|quote|>"and I mean to find out what it is."</|quote|>"Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into | A Room With A View |
"Mr. Emerson--" | Lucy | find out what it is."<|quote|>"Mr. Emerson--"</|quote|>He turned towards her frowning, | repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is."<|quote|>"Mr. Emerson--"</|quote|>He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed | me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is."<|quote|>"Mr. Emerson--"</|quote|>He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times | conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is."<|quote|>"Mr. Emerson--"</|quote|>He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what | are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is."<|quote|>"Mr. Emerson--"</|quote|>He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown | dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is."<|quote|>"Mr. Emerson--"</|quote|>He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But | opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is."<|quote|>"Mr. Emerson--"</|quote|>He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. | I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is."<|quote|>"Mr. Emerson--"</|quote|>He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to | A Room With A View |
He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. | No speaker | what it is." "Mr. Emerson--"<|quote|>He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest.</|quote|>"I want to ask you | I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--"<|quote|>He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest.</|quote|>"I want to ask you something before we go in." | the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--"<|quote|>He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest.</|quote|>"I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested | was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--"<|quote|>He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest.</|quote|>"I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude | childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--"<|quote|>He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest.</|quote|>"I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her | is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--"<|quote|>He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest.</|quote|>"I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning | lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--"<|quote|>He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest.</|quote|>"I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. | is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--"<|quote|>He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest.</|quote|>"I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, | A Room With A View |
"I want to ask you something before we go in." | George Emerson | him in some abstract quest.<|quote|>"I want to ask you something before we go in."</|quote|>They were close to their | as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest.<|quote|>"I want to ask you something before we go in."</|quote|>They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant | without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest.<|quote|>"I want to ask you something before we go in."</|quote|>They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: | under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest.<|quote|>"I want to ask you something before we go in."</|quote|>They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, | thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest.<|quote|>"I want to ask you something before we go in."</|quote|>They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such | "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest.<|quote|>"I want to ask you something before we go in."</|quote|>They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, | down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest.<|quote|>"I want to ask you something before we go in."</|quote|>They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, | is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest.<|quote|>"I want to ask you something before we go in."</|quote|>They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed | A Room With A View |
They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: | No speaker | something before we go in."<|quote|>They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying:</|quote|>"I have behaved ridiculously." He | "I want to ask you something before we go in."<|quote|>They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying:</|quote|>"I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. | died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in."<|quote|>They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying:</|quote|>"I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, | is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in."<|quote|>They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying:</|quote|>"I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And | "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in."<|quote|>They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying:</|quote|>"I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And | she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in."<|quote|>They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying:</|quote|>"I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and | out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in."<|quote|>They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying:</|quote|>"I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! | She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in."<|quote|>They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying:</|quote|>"I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. | A Room With A View |
"I have behaved ridiculously." | Lucy | moved her elbows before saying:<|quote|>"I have behaved ridiculously."</|quote|>He was following his own | to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying:<|quote|>"I have behaved ridiculously."</|quote|>He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so | They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying:<|quote|>"I have behaved ridiculously."</|quote|>He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is | died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying:<|quote|>"I have behaved ridiculously."</|quote|>He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could | him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying:<|quote|>"I have behaved ridiculously."</|quote|>He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope | I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying:<|quote|>"I have behaved ridiculously."</|quote|>He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to | him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying:<|quote|>"I have behaved ridiculously."</|quote|>He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching | something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying:<|quote|>"I have behaved ridiculously."</|quote|>He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was | A Room With A View |
He was following his own thoughts. | No speaker | saying: "I have behaved ridiculously."<|quote|>He was following his own thoughts.</|quote|>"I was never so much | She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously."<|quote|>He was following his own thoughts.</|quote|>"I was never so much ashamed of myself in my | their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously."<|quote|>He was following his own thoughts.</|quote|>"I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly | that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously."<|quote|>He was following his own thoughts.</|quote|>"I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. | time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously."<|quote|>He was following his own thoughts.</|quote|>"I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence | that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously."<|quote|>He was following his own thoughts.</|quote|>"I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. | the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously."<|quote|>He was following his own thoughts.</|quote|>"I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. | photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously."<|quote|>He was following his own thoughts.</|quote|>"I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready | A Room With A View |
"I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." | Lucy | was following his own thoughts.<|quote|>"I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me."</|quote|>"I nearly fainted myself," he | "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts.<|quote|>"I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me."</|quote|>"I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that | her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts.<|quote|>"I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me."</|quote|>"I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would | has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts.<|quote|>"I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me."</|quote|>"I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into | There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts.<|quote|>"I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me."</|quote|>"I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been | dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts.<|quote|>"I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me."</|quote|>"I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, | above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. She thought: "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts.<|quote|>"I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me."</|quote|>"I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not | "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts.<|quote|>"I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me."</|quote|>"I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre | A Room With A View |
"I nearly fainted myself," | George Emerson | think what came over me."<|quote|>"I nearly fainted myself,"</|quote|>he said; but she felt | in my life; I cannot think what came over me."<|quote|>"I nearly fainted myself,"</|quote|>he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. | identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me."<|quote|>"I nearly fainted myself,"</|quote|>he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it | her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me."<|quote|>"I nearly fainted myself,"</|quote|>he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he | to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me."<|quote|>"I nearly fainted myself,"</|quote|>he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and | was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me."<|quote|>"I nearly fainted myself,"</|quote|>he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials | what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me."<|quote|>"I nearly fainted myself,"</|quote|>he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been | Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me."<|quote|>"I nearly fainted myself,"</|quote|>he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent | A Room With A View |
he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. | No speaker | me." "I nearly fainted myself,"<|quote|>he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.</|quote|>"Well, I owe you a | cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself,"<|quote|>he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.</|quote|>"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." | is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself,"<|quote|>he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.</|quote|>"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, | she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself,"<|quote|>he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.</|quote|>"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it | He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself,"<|quote|>he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.</|quote|>"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on | She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself,"<|quote|>he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.</|quote|>"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search | "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself,"<|quote|>he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.</|quote|>"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could | Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself,"<|quote|>he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.</|quote|>"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation | A Room With A View |
"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." | Lucy | that her attitude repelled him.<|quote|>"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies."</|quote|>"Oh, all right." "And--this is | he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.<|quote|>"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies."</|quote|>"Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how | eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.<|quote|>"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies."</|quote|>"Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. | to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.<|quote|>"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies."</|quote|>"Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in | bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.<|quote|>"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies."</|quote|>"Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in | over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.<|quote|>"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies."</|quote|>"Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have | eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.<|quote|>"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies."</|quote|>"Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she | her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.<|quote|>"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies."</|quote|>"Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had | A Room With A View |
"Oh, all right." | George Emerson | owe you a thousand apologies."<|quote|>"Oh, all right."</|quote|>"And--this is the real point--you | attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies."<|quote|>"Oh, all right."</|quote|>"And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are | saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies."<|quote|>"Oh, all right."</|quote|>"And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" | in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies."<|quote|>"Oh, all right."</|quote|>"And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. | one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies."<|quote|>"Oh, all right."</|quote|>"And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It | faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies."<|quote|>"Oh, all right."</|quote|>"And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. | but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies."<|quote|>"Oh, all right."</|quote|>"And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling | and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies."<|quote|>"Oh, all right."</|quote|>"And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her | A Room With A View |
"And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" | Lucy | thousand apologies." "Oh, all right."<|quote|>"And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?"</|quote|>"I'm afraid I don't." "I | "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right."<|quote|>"And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?"</|quote|>"I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention | behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right."<|quote|>"And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?"</|quote|>"I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing | close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right."<|quote|>"And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?"</|quote|>"I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even | foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right."<|quote|>"And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?"</|quote|>"I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a | before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right."<|quote|>"And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?"</|quote|>"I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face | anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right."<|quote|>"And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?"</|quote|>"I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since | earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right."<|quote|>"And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?"</|quote|>"I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His | A Room With A View |
"I'm afraid I don't." | George Emerson | afraid--you understand what I mean?"<|quote|>"I'm afraid I don't."</|quote|>"I mean, would you not | are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?"<|quote|>"I'm afraid I don't."</|quote|>"I mean, would you not mention it to any one, | I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?"<|quote|>"I'm afraid I don't."</|quote|>"I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown | There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?"<|quote|>"I'm afraid I don't."</|quote|>"I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion | they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?"<|quote|>"I'm afraid I don't."</|quote|>"I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, | seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?"<|quote|>"I'm afraid I don't."</|quote|>"I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None | They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?"<|quote|>"I'm afraid I don't."</|quote|>"I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel | "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?"<|quote|>"I'm afraid I don't."</|quote|>"I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to | A Room With A View |
"I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" | Lucy | mean?" "I'm afraid I don't."<|quote|>"I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?"</|quote|>"Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all | am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't."<|quote|>"I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?"</|quote|>"Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so | came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't."<|quote|>"I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?"</|quote|>"Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It | a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't."<|quote|>"I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?"</|quote|>"Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not | the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't."<|quote|>"I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?"</|quote|>"Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you | her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't."<|quote|>"I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?"</|quote|>"Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, | some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't."<|quote|>"I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?"</|quote|>"Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest | to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't."<|quote|>"I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?"</|quote|>"Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. | A Room With A View |
"Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." | George Emerson | any one, my foolish behaviour?"<|quote|>"Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right."</|quote|>"Thank you so much. And | you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?"<|quote|>"Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right."</|quote|>"Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not | her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?"<|quote|>"Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right."</|quote|>"Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to | have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?"<|quote|>"Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right."</|quote|>"Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless | face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?"<|quote|>"Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right."</|quote|>"Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these | them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?"<|quote|>"Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right."</|quote|>"Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing | when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?"<|quote|>"Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right."</|quote|>"Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though | "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?"<|quote|>"Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right."</|quote|>"Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting | A Room With A View |
"Thank you so much. And would you--" | Lucy | Oh, yes, all right--all right."<|quote|>"Thank you so much. And would you--"</|quote|>She could not carry her | my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right."<|quote|>"Thank you so much. And would you--"</|quote|>She could not carry her request any further. The river | you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right."<|quote|>"Thank you so much. And would you--"</|quote|>She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. | moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right."<|quote|>"Thank you so much. And would you--"</|quote|>She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" | exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right."<|quote|>"Thank you so much. And would you--"</|quote|>She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns | tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right."<|quote|>"Thank you so much. And would you--"</|quote|>She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again | his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right."<|quote|>"Thank you so much. And would you--"</|quote|>She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the | but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right."<|quote|>"Thank you so much. And would you--"</|quote|>She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the | A Room With A View |
She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. | No speaker | so much. And would you--"<|quote|>She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth.</|quote|>"Well, thank you so much," | all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--"<|quote|>She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth.</|quote|>"Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these | "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--"<|quote|>She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth.</|quote|>"Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want | behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--"<|quote|>She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth.</|quote|>"Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly | warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--"<|quote|>She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth.</|quote|>"Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza | odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--"<|quote|>She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth.</|quote|>"Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a | I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--"<|quote|>She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth.</|quote|>"Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who | "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--"<|quote|>She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth.</|quote|>"Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she | A Room With A View |
"Well, thank you so much," | Lucy | the branching paths of Youth.<|quote|>"Well, thank you so much,"</|quote|>she repeated, "How quickly these | and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth.<|quote|>"Well, thank you so much,"</|quote|>she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then | just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth.<|quote|>"Well, thank you so much,"</|quote|>she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning | behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth.<|quote|>"Well, thank you so much,"</|quote|>she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's | my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth.<|quote|>"Well, thank you so much,"</|quote|>she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the | happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth.<|quote|>"Well, thank you so much,"</|quote|>she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that | "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth.<|quote|>"Well, thank you so much,"</|quote|>she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish | "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth.<|quote|>"Well, thank you so much,"</|quote|>she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American | A Room With A View |
she repeated, | No speaker | "Well, thank you so much,"<|quote|>she repeated,</|quote|>"How quickly these accidents do | the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much,"<|quote|>she repeated,</|quote|>"How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns | blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much,"<|quote|>she repeated,</|quote|>"How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows | by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much,"<|quote|>she repeated,</|quote|>"How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found | Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much,"<|quote|>she repeated,</|quote|>"How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. | without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much,"<|quote|>she repeated,</|quote|>"How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth | so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much,"<|quote|>she repeated,</|quote|>"How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks | my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much,"<|quote|>she repeated,</|quote|>"How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all | A Room With A View |
"How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" | Lucy | you so much," she repeated,<|quote|>"How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!"</|quote|>"I don't." Anxiety moved her | paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated,<|quote|>"How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!"</|quote|>"I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer | the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated,<|quote|>"How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!"</|quote|>"I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected | It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated,<|quote|>"How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!"</|quote|>"I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy | all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated,<|quote|>"How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!"</|quote|>"I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the | muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated,<|quote|>"How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!"</|quote|>"I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved | much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated,<|quote|>"How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!"</|quote|>"I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which | "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated,<|quote|>"How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!"</|quote|>"I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At | A Room With A View |
"I don't." | George Emerson | returns to the old life!"<|quote|>"I don't."</|quote|>Anxiety moved her to question | do happen, and then one returns to the old life!"<|quote|>"I don't."</|quote|>Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: | a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!"<|quote|>"I don't."</|quote|>Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to | would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!"<|quote|>"I don't."</|quote|>Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. | her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!"<|quote|>"I don't."</|quote|>Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of | must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!"<|quote|>"I don't."</|quote|>Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, | "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!"<|quote|>"I don't."</|quote|>Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't | right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!"<|quote|>"I don't."</|quote|>Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called | A Room With A View |
Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: | No speaker | the old life!" "I don't."<|quote|>Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling:</|quote|>"I shall probably want to | and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't."<|quote|>Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling:</|quote|>"I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? | had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't."<|quote|>Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling:</|quote|>"I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It | the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't."<|quote|>Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling:</|quote|>"I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure | any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't."<|quote|>Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling:</|quote|>"I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was | him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't."<|quote|>Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling:</|quote|>"I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning | don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't."<|quote|>Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling:</|quote|>"I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and | afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't."<|quote|>Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling:</|quote|>"I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch | A Room With A View |
"I shall probably want to live." | George Emerson | him. His answer was puzzling:<|quote|>"I shall probably want to live."</|quote|>"But why, Mr. Emerson? What | Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling:<|quote|>"I shall probably want to live."</|quote|>"But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall | come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling:<|quote|>"I shall probably want to live."</|quote|>"But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you | like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling:<|quote|>"I shall probably want to live."</|quote|>"But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at | in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling:<|quote|>"I shall probably want to live."</|quote|>"But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that | find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling:<|quote|>"I shall probably want to live."</|quote|>"But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to | said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling:<|quote|>"I shall probably want to live."</|quote|>"But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. | did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling:<|quote|>"I shall probably want to live."</|quote|>"But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much | A Room With A View |
"But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" | Lucy | shall probably want to live."<|quote|>"But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?"</|quote|>"I shall want to live, | His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live."<|quote|>"But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?"</|quote|>"I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows | tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live."<|quote|>"But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?"</|quote|>"I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." | picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live."<|quote|>"But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?"</|quote|>"I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials | thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live."<|quote|>"But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?"</|quote|>"I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; | Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live."<|quote|>"But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?"</|quote|>"I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, | man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live."<|quote|>"But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?"</|quote|>"I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in | advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live."<|quote|>"But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?"</|quote|>"I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome | A Room With A View |
"I shall want to live, I say." | George Emerson | Emerson? What do you mean?"<|quote|>"I shall want to live, I say."</|quote|>Leaning her elbows on the | to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?"<|quote|>"I shall want to live, I say."</|quote|>Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River | paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?"<|quote|>"I shall want to live, I say."</|quote|>Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over | he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?"<|quote|>"I shall want to live, I say."</|quote|>Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had | had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?"<|quote|>"I shall want to live, I say."</|quote|>Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts | she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?"<|quote|>"I shall want to live, I say."</|quote|>Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' | are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?"<|quote|>"I shall want to live, I say."</|quote|>Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. | behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?"<|quote|>"I shall want to live, I say."</|quote|>Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she | A Room With A View |
Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of | No speaker | want to live, I say."<|quote|>Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of</|quote|>"Too much Beethoven." But he | do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say."<|quote|>Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of</|quote|>"Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was | much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say."<|quote|>Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of</|quote|>"Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking | the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say."<|quote|>Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of</|quote|>"Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for | her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say."<|quote|>Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of</|quote|>"Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, | quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say."<|quote|>Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of</|quote|>"Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the | him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say."<|quote|>Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of</|quote|>"Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend | her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say."<|quote|>Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of</|quote|>"Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and | A Room With A View |
"Too much Beethoven." | Mr. Beebe | to himself the remark of<|quote|>"Too much Beethoven."</|quote|>But he only supposed that | at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of<|quote|>"Too much Beethoven."</|quote|>But he only supposed that she was ready for an | for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of<|quote|>"Too much Beethoven."</|quote|>But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. | George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of<|quote|>"Too much Beethoven."</|quote|>But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had | Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of<|quote|>"Too much Beethoven."</|quote|>But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! | any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of<|quote|>"Too much Beethoven."</|quote|>But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, | to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of<|quote|>"Too much Beethoven."</|quote|>But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful | frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of<|quote|>"Too much Beethoven."</|quote|>But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had | A Room With A View |
But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. | No speaker | remark of "Too much Beethoven."<|quote|>But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone.</|quote|>"No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, | again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven."<|quote|>But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone.</|quote|>"No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very | For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven."<|quote|>But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone.</|quote|>"No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. | and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven."<|quote|>But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone.</|quote|>"No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. | to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven."<|quote|>But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone.</|quote|>"No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling | river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven."<|quote|>But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone.</|quote|>"No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm | Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven."<|quote|>But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone.</|quote|>"No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most | mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven."<|quote|>But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone.</|quote|>"No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations | A Room With A View |
"No, Charlotte!" | Lucy | and could easily accomplish alone.<|quote|>"No, Charlotte!"</|quote|>cried the girl, with real | Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone.<|quote|>"No, Charlotte!"</|quote|>cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of | join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone.<|quote|>"No, Charlotte!"</|quote|>cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably | to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone.<|quote|>"No, Charlotte!"</|quote|>cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett | Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone.<|quote|>"No, Charlotte!"</|quote|>cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte | was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone.<|quote|>"No, Charlotte!"</|quote|>cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you | foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone.<|quote|>"No, Charlotte!"</|quote|>cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." | below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone.<|quote|>"No, Charlotte!"</|quote|>cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we | A Room With A View |
cried the girl, with real warmth. | No speaker | easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!"<|quote|>cried the girl, with real warmth.</|quote|>"It's very kind of Mr. | accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!"<|quote|>cried the girl, with real warmth.</|quote|>"It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly | party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!"<|quote|>cried the girl, with real warmth.</|quote|>"It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as | whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!"<|quote|>cried the girl, with real warmth.</|quote|>"It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet | Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!"<|quote|>cried the girl, with real warmth.</|quote|>"It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to | exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!"<|quote|>cried the girl, with real warmth.</|quote|>"It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think | seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!"<|quote|>cried the girl, with real warmth.</|quote|>"It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great | She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!"<|quote|>cried the girl, with real warmth.</|quote|>"It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. | A Room With A View |
"It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." | Lucy | the girl, with real warmth.<|quote|>"It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather."</|quote|>"Very well, dear," said Miss | accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth.<|quote|>"It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather."</|quote|>"Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush | had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth.<|quote|>"It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather."</|quote|>"Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped | wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth.<|quote|>"It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather."</|quote|>"Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy | one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth.<|quote|>"It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather."</|quote|>"Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, | something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth.<|quote|>"It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather."</|quote|>"Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a | out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth.<|quote|>"It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather."</|quote|>"Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she | for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth.<|quote|>"It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather."</|quote|>"Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain | A Room With A View |
"Very well, dear," | Miss Bartlett | you. I had much rather."<|quote|>"Very well, dear,"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, with a | I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather."<|quote|>"Very well, dear,"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that | Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather."<|quote|>"Very well, dear,"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into | to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather."<|quote|>"Very well, dear,"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother | friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather."<|quote|>"Very well, dear,"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take | childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather."<|quote|>"Very well, dear,"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel | verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather."<|quote|>"Very well, dear,"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss | "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather."<|quote|>"Very well, dear,"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her | A Room With A View |
said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was | No speaker | much rather." "Very well, dear,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was</|quote|>"How I do wish Freddy | coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was</|quote|>"How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see | shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was</|quote|>"How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the | Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was</|quote|>"How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she | her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was</|quote|>"How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She | the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was</|quote|>"How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young | man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was</|quote|>"How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a | She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was</|quote|>"How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of | A Room With A View |
"How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" | Miss Bartlett | her usual remark, which was<|quote|>"How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!"</|quote|>Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome | at it. She then made her usual remark, which was<|quote|>"How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!"</|quote|>Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped | nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was<|quote|>"How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!"</|quote|>Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer | you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was<|quote|>"How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!"</|quote|>Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter | plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was<|quote|>"How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!"</|quote|>Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given | that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was<|quote|>"How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!"</|quote|>Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the | is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was<|quote|>"How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!"</|quote|>Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So | young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was<|quote|>"How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!"</|quote|>Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to | A Room With A View |
Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. | No speaker | mother could see this, too!"<|quote|>Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did.</|quote|>"Look, Lucia! Oh, you are | do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!"<|quote|>Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did.</|quote|>"Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del | started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!"<|quote|>Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did.</|quote|>"Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but | a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!"<|quote|>Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did.</|quote|>"Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided | to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!"<|quote|>Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did.</|quote|>"Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let | perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!"<|quote|>Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did.</|quote|>"Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. | of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!"<|quote|>Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did.</|quote|>"Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made | not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!"<|quote|>Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did.</|quote|>"Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I | A Room With A View |
"Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." | Miss Bartlett | stopped exactly where she did.<|quote|>"Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice."</|quote|>Serious as the choice had | tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did.<|quote|>"Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice."</|quote|>Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. | strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did.<|quote|>"Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice."</|quote|>Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del | the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did.<|quote|>"Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice."</|quote|>Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza | Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did.<|quote|>"Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice."</|quote|>Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here | adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did.<|quote|>"Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice."</|quote|>Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And | before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did.<|quote|>"Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice."</|quote|>Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would | character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did.<|quote|>"Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice."</|quote|>Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would | A Room With A View |
Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. | No speaker | repent you of your choice."<|quote|>Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book.</|quote|>"Oh, let me congratulate you!" | party. I feared you would repent you of your choice."<|quote|>Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book.</|quote|>"Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your | remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice."<|quote|>Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book.</|quote|>"Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But | would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice."<|quote|>Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book.</|quote|>"Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I | But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice."<|quote|>Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book.</|quote|>"Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked | They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice."<|quote|>Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book.</|quote|>"Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because | my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice."<|quote|>Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book.</|quote|>"Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour's ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful--far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures. That man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us." Miss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of, and saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them. Living in delicate | ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice."<|quote|>Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book.</|quote|>"Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. | A Room With A View |
"Oh, let me congratulate you!" | Miss Bartlett | work up into a book.<|quote|>"Oh, let me congratulate you!"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett. "After your | idea which she thought would work up into a book.<|quote|>"Oh, let me congratulate you!"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a | ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book.<|quote|>"Oh, let me congratulate you!"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" | had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book.<|quote|>"Oh, let me congratulate you!"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of | she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book.<|quote|>"Oh, let me congratulate you!"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss | Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book.<|quote|>"Oh, let me congratulate you!"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." | say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book.<|quote|>"Oh, let me congratulate you!"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour's ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful--far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures. That man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us." Miss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of, and saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them. Living in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, | herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book.<|quote|>"Oh, let me congratulate you!"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is | A Room With A View |
said Miss Bartlett. | No speaker | "Oh, let me congratulate you!"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett.</|quote|>"After your despair of yesterday! | work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett.</|quote|>"After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! | the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett.</|quote|>"After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you | the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett.</|quote|>"After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart | you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett.</|quote|>"After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own | Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett.</|quote|>"After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a | you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett.</|quote|>"After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour's ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful--far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures. That man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us." Miss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of, and saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them. Living in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissance | called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett.</|quote|>"After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, | A Room With A View |
"After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" | Miss Bartlett | congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett.<|quote|>"After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!"</|quote|>"Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you | a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett.<|quote|>"After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!"</|quote|>"Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. | occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett.<|quote|>"After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!"</|quote|>"Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather | remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett.<|quote|>"After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!"</|quote|>"Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to | for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett.<|quote|>"After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!"</|quote|>"Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That | party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett.<|quote|>"After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!"</|quote|>"Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the | that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett.<|quote|>"After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!"</|quote|>"Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour's ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful--far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures. That man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us." Miss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of, and saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them. Living in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissance villas on Fiesole's slope, they read, wrote, studied, and | was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett.<|quote|>"After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!"</|quote|>"Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It | A Room With A View |
"Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." | Miss Lavish | yesterday! What a fortunate thing!"<|quote|>"Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning."</|quote|>Lucy poked at the ground | Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!"<|quote|>"Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning."</|quote|>Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps | who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!"<|quote|>"Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning."</|quote|>Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," | from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!"<|quote|>"Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning."</|quote|>Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock | would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!"<|quote|>"Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning."</|quote|>Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain | in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!"<|quote|>"Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning."</|quote|>Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss | his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!"<|quote|>"Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning."</|quote|>Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour's ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful--far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures. That man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us." Miss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of, and saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them. Living in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissance villas on Fiesole's slope, they read, wrote, studied, and exchanged ideas, thus attaining to that intimate knowledge, or rather perception, of Florence which is denied to all who carry in their pockets the | morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!"<|quote|>"Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning."</|quote|>Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her | A Room With A View |
Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. | No speaker | you saw from the beginning."<|quote|>Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol.</|quote|>"But perhaps you would rather | tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning."<|quote|>Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol.</|quote|>"But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could | which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning."<|quote|>Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol.</|quote|>"But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. | significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning."<|quote|>Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol.</|quote|>"But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was | kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning."<|quote|>Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol.</|quote|>"But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. | irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning."<|quote|>Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol.</|quote|>"But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so | he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning."<|quote|>Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol.</|quote|>"But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour's ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful--far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures. That man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us." Miss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of, and saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them. Living in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissance villas on Fiesole's slope, they read, wrote, studied, and exchanged ideas, thus attaining to that intimate knowledge, or rather perception, of Florence which is denied to all who carry in their pockets the coupons of Cook. Therefore an invitation from the | noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning."<|quote|>Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol.</|quote|>"But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy | A Room With A View |
"But perhaps you would rather not?" | Miss Lavish | the ground with her parasol.<|quote|>"But perhaps you would rather not?"</|quote|>"I'm sorry--if you could manage | the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol.<|quote|>"But perhaps you would rather not?"</|quote|>"I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I | book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol.<|quote|>"But perhaps you would rather not?"</|quote|>"I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of | of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol.<|quote|>"But perhaps you would rather not?"</|quote|>"I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always | easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol.<|quote|>"But perhaps you would rather not?"</|quote|>"I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me | this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol.<|quote|>"But perhaps you would rather not?"</|quote|>"I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a | she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol.<|quote|>"But perhaps you would rather not?"</|quote|>"I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour's ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful--far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures. That man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us." Miss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of, and saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them. Living in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissance villas on Fiesole's slope, they read, wrote, studied, and exchanged ideas, thus attaining to that intimate knowledge, or rather perception, of Florence which is denied to all who carry in their pockets the coupons of Cook. Therefore an invitation from the chaplain was something to be proud | not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol.<|quote|>"But perhaps you would rather not?"</|quote|>"I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss | A Room With A View |
"I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." | Lucy | perhaps you would rather not?"<|quote|>"I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not."</|quote|>The elder ladies exchanged glances, | ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?"<|quote|>"I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not."</|quote|>The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is | said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?"<|quote|>"I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not."</|quote|>The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the | the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?"<|quote|>"I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not."</|quote|>The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For | feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?"<|quote|>"I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not."</|quote|>The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to | alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?"<|quote|>"I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not."</|quote|>The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to | It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?"<|quote|>"I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not."</|quote|>The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour's ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful--far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures. That man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us." Miss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of, and saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them. Living in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissance villas on Fiesole's slope, they read, wrote, studied, and exchanged ideas, thus attaining to that intimate knowledge, or rather perception, of Florence which is denied to all who carry in their pockets the coupons of Cook. Therefore an invitation from the chaplain was something to be proud of. Between the two sections of his flock he was often the only | For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?"<|quote|>"I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not."</|quote|>The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most | A Room With A View |
The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. | No speaker | think I would rather not."<|quote|>The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply.</|quote|>"It is I who am | could manage without it, I think I would rather not."<|quote|>The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply.</|quote|>"It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary | Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not."<|quote|>The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply.</|quote|>"It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been | had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not."<|quote|>The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply.</|quote|>"It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, | summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not."<|quote|>The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply.</|quote|>"It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal | Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not."<|quote|>The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply.</|quote|>"It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish | the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not."<|quote|>The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply.</|quote|>"It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour's ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful--far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures. That man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us." Miss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of, and saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them. Living in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissance villas on Fiesole's slope, they read, wrote, studied, and exchanged ideas, thus attaining to that intimate knowledge, or rather perception, of Florence which is denied to all who carry in their pockets the coupons of Cook. Therefore an invitation from the chaplain was something to be proud of. Between the two sections of his flock he was often the only link, and it was his avowed custom to select those of his migratory sheep who seemed worthy, | to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not."<|quote|>The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply.</|quote|>"It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," | A Room With A View |
"It is I who am sorry," | Miss Lavish | a girl should feel deeply.<|quote|>"It is I who am sorry,"</|quote|>said Miss Lavish "literary hacks | disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply.<|quote|>"It is I who am sorry,"</|quote|>said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe | that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply.<|quote|>"It is I who am sorry,"</|quote|>said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock | day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply.<|quote|>"It is I who am sorry,"</|quote|>said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish | not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply.<|quote|>"It is I who am sorry,"</|quote|>said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence | Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply.<|quote|>"It is I who am sorry,"</|quote|>said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an | branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply.<|quote|>"It is I who am sorry,"</|quote|>said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour's ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful--far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures. That man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us." Miss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of, and saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them. Living in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissance villas on Fiesole's slope, they read, wrote, studied, and exchanged ideas, thus attaining to that intimate knowledge, or rather perception, of Florence which is denied to all who carry in their pockets the coupons of Cook. Therefore an invitation from the chaplain was something to be proud of. Between the two sections of his flock he was often the only link, and it was his avowed custom to select those of his migratory sheep who seemed worthy, and give them a few hours | choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply.<|quote|>"It is I who am sorry,"</|quote|>said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and | A Room With A View |
said Miss Lavish | No speaker | is I who am sorry,"<|quote|>said Miss Lavish</|quote|>"literary hacks are shameless creatures. | girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry,"<|quote|>said Miss Lavish</|quote|>"literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret | Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry,"<|quote|>said Miss Lavish</|quote|>"literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A | which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry,"<|quote|>said Miss Lavish</|quote|>"literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. | protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry,"<|quote|>said Miss Lavish</|quote|>"literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, | of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry,"<|quote|>said Miss Lavish</|quote|>"literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is | you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry,"<|quote|>said Miss Lavish</|quote|>"literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour's ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful--far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures. That man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us." Miss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of, and saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them. Living in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissance villas on Fiesole's slope, they read, wrote, studied, and exchanged ideas, thus attaining to that intimate knowledge, or rather perception, of Florence which is denied to all who carry in their pockets the coupons of Cook. Therefore an invitation from the chaplain was something to be proud of. Between the two sections of his flock he was often the only link, and it was his avowed custom to select those of his migratory sheep who seemed worthy, and give them a few hours in the pastures | not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry,"<|quote|>said Miss Lavish</|quote|>"literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who | A Room With A View |
"literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." | Miss Lavish | am sorry," said Miss Lavish<|quote|>"literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry."</|quote|>She marched cheerfully to the | deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish<|quote|>"literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry."</|quote|>She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did | the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish<|quote|>"literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry."</|quote|>She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled | would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish<|quote|>"literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry."</|quote|>She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do | Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish<|quote|>"literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry."</|quote|>She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to | called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish<|quote|>"literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry."</|quote|>She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial | she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish<|quote|>"literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry."</|quote|>She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour's ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful--far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures. That man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us." Miss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of, and saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them. Living in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissance villas on Fiesole's slope, they read, wrote, studied, and exchanged ideas, thus attaining to that intimate knowledge, or rather perception, of Florence which is denied to all who carry in their pockets the coupons of Cook. Therefore an invitation from the chaplain was something to be proud of. Between the two sections of his flock he was often the only link, and it was his avowed custom to select those of his migratory sheep who seemed worthy, and give them a few hours in the pastures of the permanent. Tea at a Renaissance villa? Nothing had been said about it yet. But if it did | only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish<|quote|>"literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry."</|quote|>She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It | A Room With A View |
She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. | No speaker | into which we wouldn't pry."<|quote|>She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot.</|quote|>"What is the heroine's name?" | secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry."<|quote|>She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot.</|quote|>"What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said | think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry."<|quote|>She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot.</|quote|>"What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the | What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry."<|quote|>She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot.</|quote|>"What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, | of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry."<|quote|>She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot.</|quote|>"What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's | as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry."<|quote|>She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot.</|quote|>"What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate | moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry."<|quote|>She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot.</|quote|>"What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour's ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful--far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures. That man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us." Miss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of, and saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them. Living in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissance villas on Fiesole's slope, they read, wrote, studied, and exchanged ideas, thus attaining to that intimate knowledge, or rather perception, of Florence which is denied to all who carry in their pockets the coupons of Cook. Therefore an invitation from the chaplain was something to be proud of. Between the two sections of his flock he was often the only link, and it was his avowed custom to select those of his migratory sheep who seemed worthy, and give them a few hours in the pastures of the permanent. Tea at a Renaissance villa? Nothing had been said about it yet. But if it did come to that--how Lucy would enjoy it! A few days ago and Lucy would have felt the same. But the joys of life were grouping themselves anew. A drive in the hills with Mr. Eager and Miss Bartlett--even if culminating in a residential tea-party--was no longer the greatest of them. She echoed the raptures of Charlotte somewhat faintly. Only when she heard that Mr. Beebe was also coming did her thanks become more sincere. "So we shall be a partie carree," | pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry."<|quote|>She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot.</|quote|>"What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me | A Room With A View |
"What is the heroine's name?" | Miss Bartlett | time furnish an excellent plot.<|quote|>"What is the heroine's name?"</|quote|>asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said | tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot.<|quote|>"What is the heroine's name?"</|quote|>asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name | good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot.<|quote|>"What is the heroine's name?"</|quote|>asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. | "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot.<|quote|>"What is the heroine's name?"</|quote|>asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce | would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot.<|quote|>"What is the heroine's name?"</|quote|>asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic | Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot.<|quote|>"What is the heroine's name?"</|quote|>asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last | adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot.<|quote|>"What is the heroine's name?"</|quote|>asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour's ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful--far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures. That man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us." Miss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of, and saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them. Living in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissance villas on Fiesole's slope, they read, wrote, studied, and exchanged ideas, thus attaining to that intimate knowledge, or rather perception, of Florence which is denied to all who carry in their pockets the coupons of Cook. Therefore an invitation from the chaplain was something to be proud of. Between the two sections of his flock he was often the only link, and it was his avowed custom to select those of his migratory sheep who seemed worthy, and give them a few hours in the pastures of the permanent. Tea at a Renaissance villa? Nothing had been said about it yet. But if it did come to that--how Lucy would enjoy it! A few days ago and Lucy would have felt the same. But the joys of life were grouping themselves anew. A drive in the hills with Mr. Eager and Miss Bartlett--even if culminating in a residential tea-party--was no longer the greatest of them. She echoed the raptures of Charlotte somewhat faintly. Only when she heard that Mr. Beebe was also coming did her thanks become more sincere. "So we shall be a partie carree," said the chaplain. "In these | one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot.<|quote|>"What is the heroine's name?"</|quote|>asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour's ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful--far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view | A Room With A View |
asked Miss Bartlett. | No speaker | "What is the heroine's name?"<|quote|>asked Miss Bartlett.</|quote|>"Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her | time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?"<|quote|>asked Miss Bartlett.</|quote|>"Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I | unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?"<|quote|>asked Miss Bartlett.</|quote|>"Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you | I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?"<|quote|>asked Miss Bartlett.</|quote|>"Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. | book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?"<|quote|>asked Miss Bartlett.</|quote|>"Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened | where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?"<|quote|>asked Miss Bartlett.</|quote|>"Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made | of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?"<|quote|>asked Miss Bartlett.</|quote|>"Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour's ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful--far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures. That man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us." Miss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of, and saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them. Living in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissance villas on Fiesole's slope, they read, wrote, studied, and exchanged ideas, thus attaining to that intimate knowledge, or rather perception, of Florence which is denied to all who carry in their pockets the coupons of Cook. Therefore an invitation from the chaplain was something to be proud of. Between the two sections of his flock he was often the only link, and it was his avowed custom to select those of his migratory sheep who seemed worthy, and give them a few hours in the pastures of the permanent. Tea at a Renaissance villa? Nothing had been said about it yet. But if it did come to that--how Lucy would enjoy it! A few days ago and Lucy would have felt the same. But the joys of life were grouping themselves anew. A drive in the hills with Mr. Eager and Miss Bartlett--even if culminating in a residential tea-party--was no longer the greatest of them. She echoed the raptures of Charlotte somewhat faintly. Only when she heard that Mr. Beebe was also coming did her thanks become more sincere. "So we shall be a partie carree," said the chaplain. "In these days of toil | it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?"<|quote|>asked Miss Bartlett.</|quote|>"Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour's ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful--far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures. That man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us." Miss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. | A Room With A View |
"Leonora," | Miss Lavish | heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett.<|quote|>"Leonora,"</|quote|>said Miss Lavish; her own | excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett.<|quote|>"Leonora,"</|quote|>said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do | course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett.<|quote|>"Leonora,"</|quote|>said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will | no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett.<|quote|>"Leonora,"</|quote|>said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And | me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett.<|quote|>"Leonora,"</|quote|>said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in | "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett.<|quote|>"Leonora,"</|quote|>said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to | adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett.<|quote|>"Leonora,"</|quote|>said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour's ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful--far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures. That man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us." Miss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of, and saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them. Living in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissance villas on Fiesole's slope, they read, wrote, studied, and exchanged ideas, thus attaining to that intimate knowledge, or rather perception, of Florence which is denied to all who carry in their pockets the coupons of Cook. Therefore an invitation from the chaplain was something to be proud of. Between the two sections of his flock he was often the only link, and it was his avowed custom to select those of his migratory sheep who seemed worthy, and give them a few hours in the pastures of the permanent. Tea at a Renaissance villa? Nothing had been said about it yet. But if it did come to that--how Lucy would enjoy it! A few days ago and Lucy would have felt the same. But the joys of life were grouping themselves anew. A drive in the hills with Mr. Eager and Miss Bartlett--even if culminating in a residential tea-party--was no longer the greatest of them. She echoed the raptures of Charlotte somewhat faintly. Only when she heard that Mr. Beebe was also coming did her thanks become more sincere. "So we shall be a partie carree," said the chaplain. "In these days of toil and | leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett.<|quote|>"Leonora,"</|quote|>said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate | A Room With A View |
said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. | No speaker | name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora,"<|quote|>said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor.</|quote|>"I do hope she's nice." | plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora,"<|quote|>said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor.</|quote|>"I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be | one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora,"<|quote|>said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor.</|quote|>"I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss | secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora,"<|quote|>said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor.</|quote|>"I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I | congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora,"<|quote|>said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor.</|quote|>"I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when | Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora,"<|quote|>said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor.</|quote|>"I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching | and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora,"<|quote|>said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor.</|quote|>"I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour's ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful--far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures. That man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us." Miss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of, and saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them. Living in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissance villas on Fiesole's slope, they read, wrote, studied, and exchanged ideas, thus attaining to that intimate knowledge, or rather perception, of Florence which is denied to all who carry in their pockets the coupons of Cook. Therefore an invitation from the chaplain was something to be proud of. Between the two sections of his flock he was often the only link, and it was his avowed custom to select those of his migratory sheep who seemed worthy, and give them a few hours in the pastures of the permanent. Tea at a Renaissance villa? Nothing had been said about it yet. But if it did come to that--how Lucy would enjoy it! A few days ago and Lucy would have felt the same. But the joys of life were grouping themselves anew. A drive in the hills with Mr. Eager and Miss Bartlett--even if culminating in a residential tea-party--was no longer the greatest of them. She echoed the raptures of Charlotte somewhat faintly. Only when she heard that Mr. Beebe was also coming did her thanks become more sincere. "So we shall be a partie carree," said the chaplain. "In these days of toil and tumult one has great needs of the country | leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora,"<|quote|>said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor.</|quote|>"I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a point on that road where we could get down and have | A Room With A View |
"I do hope she's nice." | Miss Bartlett | her own name was Eleanor.<|quote|>"I do hope she's nice."</|quote|>That desideratum would not be | Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor.<|quote|>"I do hope she's nice."</|quote|>That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the | had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor.<|quote|>"I do hope she's nice."</|quote|>That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so | wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor.<|quote|>"I do hope she's nice."</|quote|>That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to | of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor.<|quote|>"I do hope she's nice."</|quote|>That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then | del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor.<|quote|>"I do hope she's nice."</|quote|>That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I | Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor.<|quote|>"I do hope she's nice."</|quote|>That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour's ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful--far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures. That man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us." Miss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of, and saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them. Living in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissance villas on Fiesole's slope, they read, wrote, studied, and exchanged ideas, thus attaining to that intimate knowledge, or rather perception, of Florence which is denied to all who carry in their pockets the coupons of Cook. Therefore an invitation from the chaplain was something to be proud of. Between the two sections of his flock he was often the only link, and it was his avowed custom to select those of his migratory sheep who seemed worthy, and give them a few hours in the pastures of the permanent. Tea at a Renaissance villa? Nothing had been said about it yet. But if it did come to that--how Lucy would enjoy it! A few days ago and Lucy would have felt the same. But the joys of life were grouping themselves anew. A drive in the hills with Mr. Eager and Miss Bartlett--even if culminating in a residential tea-party--was no longer the greatest of them. She echoed the raptures of Charlotte somewhat faintly. Only when she heard that Mr. Beebe was also coming did her thanks become more sincere. "So we shall be a partie carree," said the chaplain. "In these days of toil and tumult one has great needs of the country and its message of purity. | in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor.<|quote|>"I do hope she's nice."</|quote|>That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. | A Room With A View |
That desideratum would not be omitted. | No speaker | "I do hope she's nice."<|quote|>That desideratum would not be omitted.</|quote|>"And what is the plot?" | her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice."<|quote|>That desideratum would not be omitted.</|quote|>"And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was | note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice."<|quote|>That desideratum would not be omitted.</|quote|>"And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic | to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice."<|quote|>That desideratum would not be omitted.</|quote|>"And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked | thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice."<|quote|>That desideratum would not be omitted.</|quote|>"And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her | you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice."<|quote|>That desideratum would not be omitted.</|quote|>"And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. | Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice."<|quote|>That desideratum would not be omitted.</|quote|>"And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour's ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful--far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures. That man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us." Miss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of, and saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them. Living in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissance villas on Fiesole's slope, they read, wrote, studied, and exchanged ideas, thus attaining to that intimate knowledge, or rather perception, of Florence which is denied to all who carry in their pockets the coupons of Cook. Therefore an invitation from the chaplain was something to be proud of. Between the two sections of his flock he was often the only link, and it was his avowed custom to select those of his migratory sheep who seemed worthy, and give them a few hours in the pastures of the permanent. Tea at a Renaissance villa? Nothing had been said about it yet. But if it did come to that--how Lucy would enjoy it! A few days ago and Lucy would have felt the same. But the joys of life were grouping themselves anew. A drive in the hills with Mr. Eager and Miss Bartlett--even if culminating in a residential tea-party--was no longer the greatest of them. She echoed the raptures of Charlotte somewhat faintly. Only when she heard that Mr. Beebe was also coming did her thanks become more sincere. "So we shall be a partie carree," said the chaplain. "In these days of toil and tumult one has great needs of the country and its message of purity. Andate via! andate presto, presto! Ah, | a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice."<|quote|>That desideratum would not be omitted.</|quote|>"And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on | A Room With A View |
"And what is the plot?" | Miss Bartlett | desideratum would not be omitted.<|quote|>"And what is the plot?"</|quote|>Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was | do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted.<|quote|>"And what is the plot?"</|quote|>Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all | should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted.<|quote|>"And what is the plot?"</|quote|>Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is | did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted.<|quote|>"And what is the plot?"</|quote|>Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I | here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted.<|quote|>"And what is the plot?"</|quote|>Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away | choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted.<|quote|>"And what is the plot?"</|quote|>Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch | also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted.<|quote|>"And what is the plot?"</|quote|>Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour's ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful--far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures. That man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us." Miss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of, and saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them. Living in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissance villas on Fiesole's slope, they read, wrote, studied, and exchanged ideas, thus attaining to that intimate knowledge, or rather perception, of Florence which is denied to all who carry in their pockets the coupons of Cook. Therefore an invitation from the chaplain was something to be proud of. Between the two sections of his flock he was often the only link, and it was his avowed custom to select those of his migratory sheep who seemed worthy, and give them a few hours in the pastures of the permanent. Tea at a Renaissance villa? Nothing had been said about it yet. But if it did come to that--how Lucy would enjoy it! A few days ago and Lucy would have felt the same. But the joys of life were grouping themselves anew. A drive in the hills with Mr. Eager and Miss Bartlett--even if culminating in a residential tea-party--was no longer the greatest of them. She echoed the raptures of Charlotte somewhat faintly. Only when she heard that Mr. Beebe was also coming did her thanks become more sincere. "So we shall be a partie carree," said the chaplain. "In these days of toil and tumult one has great needs of the country and its message of purity. Andate via! andate presto, presto! Ah, the town! Beautiful as it | Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted.<|quote|>"And what is the plot?"</|quote|>Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly | A Room With A View |
Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. | No speaker | "And what is the plot?"<|quote|>Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun.</|quote|>"I hope you will excuse | desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?"<|quote|>Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun.</|quote|>"I hope you will excuse me for boring on like | which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?"<|quote|>Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun.</|quote|>"I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce | realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?"<|quote|>Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun.</|quote|>"I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are | Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?"<|quote|>Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun.</|quote|>"I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so | had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?"<|quote|>Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun.</|quote|>"I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole | at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?"<|quote|>Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun.</|quote|>"I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour's ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful--far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures. That man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us." Miss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of, and saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them. Living in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissance villas on Fiesole's slope, they read, wrote, studied, and exchanged ideas, thus attaining to that intimate knowledge, or rather perception, of Florence which is denied to all who carry in their pockets the coupons of Cook. Therefore an invitation from the chaplain was something to be proud of. Between the two sections of his flock he was often the only link, and it was his avowed custom to select those of his migratory sheep who seemed worthy, and give them a few hours in the pastures of the permanent. Tea at a Renaissance villa? Nothing had been said about it yet. But if it did come to that--how Lucy would enjoy it! A few days ago and Lucy would have felt the same. But the joys of life were grouping themselves anew. A drive in the hills with Mr. Eager and Miss Bartlett--even if culminating in a residential tea-party--was no longer the greatest of them. She echoed the raptures of Charlotte somewhat faintly. Only when she heard that Mr. Beebe was also coming did her thanks become more sincere. "So we shall be a partie carree," said the chaplain. "In these days of toil and tumult one has great needs of the country and its message of purity. Andate via! andate presto, presto! Ah, the town! Beautiful as it is, it is the town." They assented. "This very square--so I am told--witnessed yesterday the most sordid of tragedies. To one who | lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?"<|quote|>Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun.</|quote|>"I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. | A Room With A View |
"I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," | Miss Lavish | satyrs in the morning sun.<|quote|>"I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this,"</|quote|>Miss Lavish concluded. "It is | the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun.<|quote|>"I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this,"</|quote|>Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to | asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun.<|quote|>"I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this,"</|quote|>Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: | unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun.<|quote|>"I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this,"</|quote|>Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who | "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun.<|quote|>"I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this,"</|quote|>Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. | easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun.<|quote|>"I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this,"</|quote|>Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a point on that road | provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun.<|quote|>"I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this,"</|quote|>Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour's ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful--far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures. That man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us." Miss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of, and saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them. Living in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissance villas on Fiesole's slope, they read, wrote, studied, and exchanged ideas, thus attaining to that intimate knowledge, or rather perception, of Florence which is denied to all who carry in their pockets the coupons of Cook. Therefore an invitation from the chaplain was something to be proud of. Between the two sections of his flock he was often the only link, and it was his avowed custom to select those of his migratory sheep who seemed worthy, and give them a few hours in the pastures of the permanent. Tea at a Renaissance villa? Nothing had been said about it yet. But if it did come to that--how Lucy would enjoy it! A few days ago and Lucy would have felt the same. But the joys of life were grouping themselves anew. A drive in the hills with Mr. Eager and Miss Bartlett--even if culminating in a residential tea-party--was no longer the greatest of them. She echoed the raptures of Charlotte somewhat faintly. Only when she heard that Mr. Beebe was also coming did her thanks become more sincere. "So we shall be a partie carree," said the chaplain. "In these days of toil and tumult one has great needs of the country and its message of purity. Andate via! andate presto, presto! Ah, the town! Beautiful as it is, it is the town." They assented. "This very square--so I am told--witnessed yesterday the most sordid of tragedies. To one who loves the Florence of Dante and Savonarola there is something portentous | Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun.<|quote|>"I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this,"</|quote|>Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" | A Room With A View |
Miss Lavish concluded. | No speaker | for boring on like this,"<|quote|>Miss Lavish concluded.</|quote|>"It is so tempting to | hope you will excuse me for boring on like this,"<|quote|>Miss Lavish concluded.</|quote|>"It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. | Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this,"<|quote|>Miss Lavish concluded.</|quote|>"It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to | men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this,"<|quote|>Miss Lavish concluded.</|quote|>"It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and | without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this,"<|quote|>Miss Lavish concluded.</|quote|>"It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her | shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this,"<|quote|>Miss Lavish concluded.</|quote|>"It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a point on that road where we could | a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this,"<|quote|>Miss Lavish concluded.</|quote|>"It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour's ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful--far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures. That man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us." Miss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of, and saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them. Living in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissance villas on Fiesole's slope, they read, wrote, studied, and exchanged ideas, thus attaining to that intimate knowledge, or rather perception, of Florence which is denied to all who carry in their pockets the coupons of Cook. Therefore an invitation from the chaplain was something to be proud of. Between the two sections of his flock he was often the only link, and it was his avowed custom to select those of his migratory sheep who seemed worthy, and give them a few hours in the pastures of the permanent. Tea at a Renaissance villa? Nothing had been said about it yet. But if it did come to that--how Lucy would enjoy it! A few days ago and Lucy would have felt the same. But the joys of life were grouping themselves anew. A drive in the hills with Mr. Eager and Miss Bartlett--even if culminating in a residential tea-party--was no longer the greatest of them. She echoed the raptures of Charlotte somewhat faintly. Only when she heard that Mr. Beebe was also coming did her thanks become more sincere. "So we shall be a partie carree," said the chaplain. "In these days of toil and tumult one has great needs of the country and its message of purity. Andate via! andate presto, presto! Ah, the town! Beautiful as it is, it is the town." They assented. "This very square--so I am told--witnessed yesterday the most sordid of tragedies. To one who loves the Florence of Dante and Savonarola there is something portentous in such desecration--portentous | sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this,"<|quote|>Miss Lavish concluded.</|quote|>"It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to | A Room With A View |
"It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist." | Miss Lavish | like this," Miss Lavish concluded.<|quote|>"It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist."</|quote|>"Oh, you wicked woman," cried | excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded.<|quote|>"It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist."</|quote|>"Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure | hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded.<|quote|>"It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist."</|quote|>"Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to | over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded.<|quote|>"It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist."</|quote|>"Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished | think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded.<|quote|>"It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist."</|quote|>"Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We | to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded.<|quote|>"It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist."</|quote|>"Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour's ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful--far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures. That man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the | any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded.<|quote|>"It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist."</|quote|>"Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour's ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful--far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures. That man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us." Miss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of, and saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them. Living in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissance villas on Fiesole's slope, they read, wrote, studied, and exchanged ideas, thus attaining to that intimate knowledge, or rather perception, of Florence which is denied to all who carry in their pockets the coupons of Cook. Therefore an invitation from the chaplain was something to be proud of. Between the two sections of his flock he was often the only link, and it was his avowed custom to select those of his migratory sheep who seemed worthy, and give them a few hours in the pastures of the permanent. Tea at a Renaissance villa? Nothing had been said about it yet. But if it did come to that--how Lucy would enjoy it! A few days ago and Lucy would have felt the same. But the joys of life were grouping themselves anew. A drive in the hills with Mr. Eager and Miss Bartlett--even if culminating in a residential tea-party--was no longer the greatest of them. She echoed the raptures of Charlotte somewhat faintly. Only when she heard that Mr. Beebe was also coming did her thanks become more sincere. "So we shall be a partie carree," said the chaplain. "In these days of toil and tumult one has great needs of the country and its message of purity. Andate via! andate presto, presto! Ah, the town! Beautiful as it is, it is the town." They assented. "This very square--so I am told--witnessed yesterday the most sordid of tragedies. To one who loves the Florence of Dante and Savonarola there is something portentous in such desecration--portentous and humiliating." "Humiliating indeed," said Miss Bartlett. "Miss Honeychurch happened to be passing through as it happened. She can hardly bear to speak of it." She glanced at Lucy proudly. "And how came we to have you here?" asked the chaplain paternally. Miss Bartlett's recent liberalism oozed away at the question. "Do not blame her, please, | idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded.<|quote|>"It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist."</|quote|>"Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life." There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel." Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue. "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!" "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time." "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted. "So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour's ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful--far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond | A Room With A View |
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