between the white pillars withhold, dark wood, in roughly made panels.
And here and there, at irregular intervals, was a panel of glass, pane
overlapping pane in the long strip of narrow window. So that now these
enormous, unsightly buildings bulge out on the mountain-sides, rising in
two or three receding tiers, blind, dark, sordid-looking places.

In the morning I often lie in bed and watch the sunrise. The lake lies
dim and milky, the mountains are dark blue at the back, while over them
the sky gushes and glistens with light. At a certain place on the
mountain ridge the light burns gold, seems to fuse a little groove on
the hill's rim. It fuses and fuses at this point, till of a sudden it
comes, the intense, molten, living light. The mountains melt suddenly,
the light steps down, there is a glitter, a spangle, a clutch of
spangles, a great unbearable sun-track flashing across the milky lake,
and the light falls on my face. Then, looking aside, I hear the little
slotting noise which tells me they are opening the lemon gardens, a long
panel here and there, a long slot of darkness at irregular intervals
between the brown wood and the glass stripes.

'_Voulez-vous_'--the Signore bows me in with outstretched
hand--'_voulez-vous entrer, monsieur?_'

I went into the lemon-house, where the poor threes seem to mope in the
darkness. It is an immense, dark, cold place. Tall lemon trees, heavy
with half-visible fruit, crowd together, and rise in the gloom. They
look like ghosts in the darkness of the underworld, stately, and as if
in life, but only grand shadows of themselves. And lurking here and
there, I see one of the pillars, But he, too, seems a shadow, not one of
the dazzling white fellows I knew. Here we are trees, men, pillars, the
dark earth, the sad black paths, shut in in this enormous box. It is