She pointed suddenly at the portrait. Her formerly brown hair was dyed a white shade of blonde. Her voice was soft and singularly musical; but from time to time she uttered old-fashioned words which forced him to grope mentally. One or two landladies refused her with an air of conscious virtue that she found hard to explain. And then presently these clouds began to wear thin and expose steep, deep slopes, going down and down, with grass and pine-trees, down and down, and at last, through a great rent in the clouds, bare roofs, shining like very minute pin-heads, and a road like a fibre of white silk-Macugnana, in Italy. Bitte!. She tried to imagine the collective effect of the Fadden Ball; she had never seen a fancy-dress gathering in her life. .
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