She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. “How’d you know it was me?” He looked conspiratorially into the room for hidden informants. Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before.
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