Lucy sat in back of Jane Lenihan, who never spoke to her. 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. ‘Obstinate fool!’ She saw Gosse raise a hand, and dug into her nun’s habit for the knife she had not thought to need. The voice of the young seaman came floating down from the masthead, and the story of the immortal lovers had begun. ’ His friend held it out of the way.
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