The ruined castle and old rock-town tumbling down the far-off hillside
still smouldered in after-sunset fire, windows glittering like the
rubies in some lost crown, dropped by a forgotten king in battle. But
the red of the sky was paling to hyacinth, a strange and lovely tint
that was neither rose nor blue. As Mary went to buy herself pretty
things, walking through a scene of beauty beyond her convent dreams, she
murmured a small prayer of thanksgiving that she had been guided to this
heavenly place.
She must write to Reverend Mother and Peter, she thought, explaining why
she was here, and how glad she was that she had happened to come. Then
it struck her suddenly, though more humorously than disagreeably, that
it would be rather difficult to explain, especially in a way to satisfy
Peter. Perhaps dear Reverend Mother would be anxious for her safety, if
Peter said any of those rather silly things of Monte Carlo which at the
last she had said to her--Mary. After all, maybe it would be better to
keep to the first plan and not write until she could date a letter
Florence. Then she put the little worry out of her mind and gave her
soul to the shop-windows in the Galerie Charles Trois.
It was a fascinating gallery, where lovely ladies walked, wonderfully
dressed, pointing out dazzling jewellery in plate glass windows, to
slightly bored men who were with them. Nearly everybody who passed sent
out wafts of peculiarly luscious perfume. Mary walked the length of the
gallery, so as to see all the shops there were to see, before deciding
upon anything.
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