All the money he earned—serving McClintock and the muse—could be laid away. It was filled with sopping lichens and green benches too slimy to sit upon. Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before. You're easy to please. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster. You are right. “I do,” Anna answered. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise.
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