“It’s the stir of spring,” he said. 82 She was putting a manuscript away, gingerly locking its heavy tooled cover, but it was a huge, awkward tome. She recalled that she had heard nothing that first time when Gerald and the captain had burst in upon her. And then presently these clouds began to wear thin and expose steep, deep slopes, going down and down, with grass and pine-trees, down and down, and at last, through a great rent in the clouds, bare roofs, shining like very minute pin-heads, and a road like a fibre of white silk-Macugnana, in Italy.
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