He has none of the
heavy British mental and physical stolidity. He is strong and
muscular certainly,--but also light and supple,--and with that keen,
intellectual delicate face of his, he is more of the antique Greek
type than like a son of Les Isles Sans-Soleil."
"Sans-Soleil," echoed Angela, "But there is plenty of sunshine in
England!"
"Is there? Well, I have been unfortunate,--I have never seen any,--"
and the Abbe gave a shrug of half regret, half indifference. "It is
very curious the effect that this so brave England has upon me! In
crossing to its shores I suffer of course from the mal de mer--then
when I arrive exhausted to the white cliffs, it is generally
raining--then I take train to London, where it is what is called
black fog; and I find all the persons that I meet either with a
cold, or going to have a cold, or just recovering from a cold! It is
not lively--the very funerals are dull. And you--this is not your
experience?"
"No--frankly I cannot say it is," replied Angela, "I have seen rain
and fog in Rome that cannot be surpassed for wretchedness anywhere.
Italy is far more miserable in cold weather than England. I passed a
summer once in England, and it was to me like a glimpse of Paradise.
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