“I first saw you crossing the river Arno, after a spring rain had spoiled the day for everyone except the ducks. She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. ‘I should not dream of forcing my attentions on you.
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