"
"Yes, that makes a great difference; England can never be home
to me, I think. I will tell you, Monsieur Horace--yesterday at
that Exhibition I went to with Aunt Barbara, you know, I saw a
picture; it was an Italian scene, quite small, only a white
wall with a vine growing over the top, and a bit of blue sky,
and a beggar-boy asleep in the shade. One has seen the same
thing a hundred times before, but this one looked so bright,
so hot, so sunny, it gave me such a longing--such a longing----"
She started up, and walked once or twice up and down the room.
In a moment she came back, and went on hurriedly:--
"You ask me if I have forgotten the past, Monsieur Horace. I
think of it always--always. I cannot like England, and English
life. Aunt Barbara will not let me speak of it, and I try to
forget it when she is by, but I cannot. Aunt Barbara is very
kind--kinder than you can imagine--it is not that; but I am
weary of it all so. When we walk in the Park, or sit here in
the evening, reading, I am thinking of all the beautiful
places there are in the world; of all the great things to be
done, of all that people are seeing, and doing, and enjoying.
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