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mean anything slighting only that such fair young things ought to have a protector. We went around a great deal with the Powells of whom we got awfully fond. The evening they played duets together, so well, Fingal's Cave. Overture to Midsummer nights dream. Schöne Melusina and all I know so well. It sounded like Uncle Will and Aunt Eliza only Mr Powell played treble.

We took one lovely trip with [[Helen?]] in a gondola, to Murano, where the glass-making is done. It was a perfect afternoon. The lagoon stretching away in a dreamy loneliness of color no one who has not seen Venice [[cross out]] cannot? [[/cross out]] could ever imagine. Mr Powell had a big bundle of toasted chestnuts, and we were all in the humor for enjoying each other as well as our lovely environment. We went to the glass-factory and saw them doing wonders with only two sizes of tweezers and a big pail 

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11. Via della Colonna. [[note]] [1888] [[/note]]
Pension Selb. Florence. Nov 2a

I had a good pile of letters today my dearest sister - and read them under the gallery of the Ufizzi Palace - sitting on a stone seat. The sun was not shining, and we have waked from the dream of Venice, and there was nothing so beautiful in sight, but that the outsides of those envelopes were a great deal lovelier, and as for the insides - punched holes and all - they were as usual not half enough. I dont feel like writing about Florence yet. I am not half done with Venice. The memory of it is even more beautiful than I thought the reality was. Those perfect - cloudless - soft days. Everything beautiful bathed in warmthe and light. Our pretty room, with the two white beds, draped with white curtains, which were mosquitoe-nets - The jolly houseful of Germans - The beautiful table so queer but so good. What do 

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---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-09-24 14:46:53