The very last shred of glamour about her had long fallen from John
Derringham's eyes, and indeed things seemed to him more bald than they
really were. His proud spirit chafed from morning to night--chafed
hopelessly against the knowledge that his own action had bound him as no
ordinary bond of an engagement could. His whole personality appeared to
be changing; he was taciturn or cynically caustic, casting jibes at all
manner of things he had once held sacred. But after a week of abject
misery, he refused to bear any more, and when Mrs. Cricklander grew
tired of Florence, and decided to move on to Venice, he announced his
intention of taking a few days' tour by himself. He wished to see the
country round, he said, and especially make an excursion to San
Gimignano--that gem of all Italy for its atmosphere of the past.
"Oh! I am thoroughly tired of these moldy places," Mrs. Cricklander
announced. "The Maulevriers are in Venice, and we can have a delightful
time at the Lido; the new hotel is quite good--you had much better come
on with me now. Moping alone cannot benefit anyone.
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