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- XXVII. Summer
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XXVII
SUMMER
Spring had come and gone, it was getting on
towards Roman summer. The last
foreigners were vanishing from the stuffy streets. The
marble goddesses in the empty museums were
enjoying their holidays, cool and comfortable
in their fig-leaves. St. Peter was taking his siesta
in the shade of the Vatican gardens. The Forum
and the Coliseum were sinking back into their
haunted dreams. Giovannina and Rosina were
looking pale and tired, the roses in Miss Hall’s
hat were drooping. The dogs were panting, the
monkeys under the Trinità dei Monti steps were
yelling for change of air and scenery. My
beautiful little cutter was riding at her anchor off Porto
d’Anzio, waiting for the signal to hoist sail for my
island home, where Mastro Nicola and his three
sons were scanning the horizon from the parapet
of the chapel for my return. My last visit before
leaving Rome was to the Protestant Cemetery
by Porta San Paolo. The nightingales were still
singing to the dead, who did not seem to mind
being forgotten in so sweet a place, so fragrant
with lilies, roses and myrtle in full bloom.
Giovanni’s eight children were all down with malaria,
there was plenty of malaria in the outskirts of
Rome in those days, Baedeker might say what he
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