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. I am certainly no ghost. One with the appearance of a bald little gnome yawned agonizingly. She would not look at him, would not think of him; when her mind wavered, then she muttered to herself in the darkness so as to keep hold of her generalizations. “The young lady, I presume, told you that her name was Anna,” he remarked. He had been abusing them for a long time when I arrived. As if he read her thought, he spoke it aloud. Ice had begun to form in the shallows.
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