And then all her restlessness was turned to joy. Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. 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. Have I your final answer?" "You have, Sir Rowland," she answered, in a feeble tone, but firmly.
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