" "Mend!" echoed Mrs. “In a sort of beautiful garden-close—wearing lovely dresses and picking beautiful flowers?” “Ah! If one could!” “While those other girls trudge to business and those other women let lodgings. He touched it again, and this time it was not withdrawn. Without hindrance—present occupation. ” It was a tiny little room, daintily furnished, individual in its quaint colouring, and the masses of perfumed flowers set in strange and unexpected places. His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti. She saw it, and checked without thinking. “We can be alone?” She inquired.
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