“What did it matter?” she cried. 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. There were cakes and sandwiches—for Ennison a sort of Elysian feast, long to be remembered.
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