TAILIEUCHUNG - MY OWN RESOURCES UP AT THE VILLA

THE villa stood on the top of a hill. From the terrace in front of it you had a magnificent view of Florence; behind was an old garden, with few flowers, but with fine trees. hedges of cut box, grass walks and an artificial grotto in which water cascaded with a cool, silvery sound from a cornucopia. The house had been built in the sixteenth century by a noble Florentine, whose impoverished descendants had sold it to some English people, and it was they who had lent it for a period to Mary Panton. Though the rooms were large and. | http w w. r. i i g .-Tl IT r -p. on i UP AT THE VILLA 1 THE villa stood on the top of a hill. From the terrace in front of it you had a magnificent view of Florence behind was an old garden with few flowers but with fine trees. hedges of cut box grass walks and an artificial grotto in which water cascaded with a cool silvery sound from a cornucopia. The house had been built in the sixteenth century by a noble Florentine whose impoverished descendants had sold it to some English people and it was they who had lent it for a period to Mary Panton. Though the rooms were large and lofty it was of no great size and she managed very well with the three servants they had left her. It was somewhat scantily furnished with fine old furniture and it had an air and though there was no central heating so that when she had arrived at the end of March it had been still bitterly cold the Leonards its owners had put in bathrooms and it was comfortable enough to live in. It was June now and Mary spent most of the day when she was at home on the terrace from which she could see the domes and towers of Florence or in the garden behind. For the first few weeks of her stay she had spent much time seeing the sights she passed pleasant mornings at the Uffizi and the Bargello she visited the churches and wandered at random in old streets but now she seldom went down to Florence except to lunch or dine with friends. She was satisfied to lounge about the garden and read books and if she wanted to go out she preferred to get into the Fiat and explore the country round about. Nothing could have been more lovely with its sophisticated innocence than that Tuscan scene. When the fruit trees were in blossom and when the poplars burst into leaf their fresh colour crying aloud amid the grey evergreen of the olives she had felt a lightness of spirit she had thought never to feel again. After the tragic death of her husband a year before after the anxious months when she had to be always on hand in .

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