A Room with a View: Chapters 1–3

And above all rose the voice of the clever lady, crying: “Prato! They must go to Prato. That place is too sweetly squalid for words. I love it; I revel in shaking off the trammels of respectability, as you know.”

She handled her subjects agreeably, and they were, perhaps, more worthy of attention than the high discourse upon Guelfs and Ghibellines which was proceeding tempestuously at the other end of the room.

“I fear,” said Mr. Beebe, after a pause, “that I have been officious. I must apologize for my interference.”

“Remember, Lucy, I alone am implicated in this. I do not wish the acceptance to come from you. Grant me that, at all events.”

Miss Bartlett, in her room, fastened the window-shutters and locked the door, and then made a tour of the apartment to see where the cupboards led, and whether there were any oubliettes or secret entrances.

Meaningless at first, it gradually became menacing, obnoxious, portentous with evil.

But Miss Lavish had said so much about knowing her Florence by heart, that Lucy had followed her with no misgivings.

My dear Miss Lucy, during our political diatribes we have taken a wrong turning.

She puzzled out the Italian notices—the notices that forbade people to introduce dogs into the church—the notice that prayed people, in the interest of health and out of respect to the sacred edifice in which they found themselves, not to spit.

The son, who took every little contretemps as if it were a tragedy, was listening also.

She was then no longer either deferential or patronizing; no longer either a rebel or a slave.

She was then no longer either deferential or patronizing; no longer either a rebel or a slave.

The seats were filled with a respectful audience, and the ladies and gentlemen of the parish, under the auspices of their vicar, sang, or recited, or imitated the drawing of a champagne cork.

Mr. Beebe sat back complacently, and Miss Alan began as follows: “It was a novel—and I am afraid, from what I can gather, not a very nice novel."

A delicate pathos perfumed her disconnected remarks, giving them unexpected beauty, just as in the decaying autumn woods there sometimes rise odours reminiscent of spring.