Harper's New Monthly Magazine Volume 104 December 1901 to May 1902 . everycrest a laughing boy. He was still sleeping when, two hourslater, she stood, one of a dark group,at her own door, the open door. Whenhe saw who the comers were he startedup, making that wild, futile dash forlife instinctive in trapped in the shining helmets and offi-cial buckles of the men come to arresthim was his mothers wild, fanatic dashed forward, with a thought ofthe sea, eternal master of all their des-tinies and friend to some. But a humanwall met him. Blandinah bounded forward too, withth
Harper's New Monthly Magazine Volume 104 December 1901 to May 1902 . everycrest a laughing boy. He was still sleeping when, two hourslater, she stood, one of a dark group,at her own door, the open door. Whenhe saw who the comers were he startedup, making that wild, futile dash forlife instinctive in trapped in the shining helmets and offi-cial buckles of the men come to arresthim was his mothers wild, fanatic dashed forward, with a thought ofthe sea, eternal master of all their des-tinies and friend to some. But a humanwall met him. Blandinah bounded forward too, withthe quickness of a girl. She had alteredher mind—too late. The admission offailure, of grave mistake, set its dreadfulstamp on her at last. She had taken awrong reading—of the mocking sea, ofthe indifferent green sky with its sover-eign moon. She should never have gonein to the town. She had trodden the wrong road, afterall. Was there, then, no way out? Had they all of them—three guiltymen, and one more guilty woman—bar-tered the immortal souls within them?. IVE DONE IT, HE SAID Ventimiglia Rapallo and the Italian Riviera BY ERNEST C. PEIXOTTO THOUGH appreciated for some yearsby English and German travellers,to Americans the Italian Riviera isstill almost an undiscovered country. Bythe Italian Riviera I do not mean SanRemo and Bordighera, for they, of course,are known and more or less frequented,but I mean the rest of the coast downto Spezia, which usually remains a blankto us Americans as we speed along onthe night express from Nice to Florenceor Rome. Even if the journey is takenby daylight we gain but a scant idea ofits beauty, for in the finest parts therailroad is but a tiresome succession oftunnels—villages suddenly appearing likephantoms in the night; hurried glimpsesof houses clustered round a pointed bel-fry, or ranged along a dazzling pebblybeach; shady hill-slopes and precipicesplunging into the sea—only to be swal-lowed up in the darkness of a secondtunnel
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