“Ciao, Fragolina. It was there in the breast pocket, stiff and legal looking. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. "You will never leave me," sobbed the poor woman, straining him to her breast. The weather harmonized with their feelings. The flowers and turf, a wild strawberry, a rare butterfly, and suchlike little intimate things had become more interesting than mountains. He regretted now that in his idle hours he hadn't hunted up one against the rainy day. The tree-lined streets were silent except for the sporadic revving of glass packs down Church Avenue.
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