” She commented. Sheppard, eagerly. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. 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.
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