We go on to Venice. And next week there
will be mountains--and snow-peaks--rivers--forests--flowers--"
Her voice sank and died away. Diana clung to her, weeping, in a
speechless grief and reverence. At the same time her own murdered love
cried out within her, and in the hot despair of youth she told herself
that life was as much finished for her as for this tired saint--this
woman of forty--who had borne since her babyhood the burdens of
the poor.
CHAPTER XVII
The Whitsuntide recess passed--for the wanderers in Italy--in a glorious
prodigality of sun, a rushing of bud and leaf to "feed in air," a
twittering of birds, a splendor of warm nights, which for once indorsed
the traditional rhapsodies of the poets. The little party of friends
which had met at Assisi moved on together to Siena and Perugia, except
for Marion Vincent and Frobisher. They quietly bade farewell, and went
their way.
When Marion kissed Diana at parting, she said, with emphasis:
"Now, remember!--you are not to come to London! You are not to go to
work in the East End. I forbid it! You are to go home--and look
lovely--and be happy!"
Diana's eyes gazed wistfully into hers.
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