She was conscious of her discontent; it
was new to her to be conscious of it. "The world," she thought,
"is certainly full of beautiful things, if only I could come
across them." It was not surprising that Mrs. Honeychurch
disapproved of music, declaring that it always left her daughter
peevish, unpractical, and touchy.
"Nothing ever happens to me," she reflected, as she entered the
Piazza Signoria and looked nonchalantly at its marvels, now
fairly familiar to her. The great square was in shadow; the
sunshine had come too late to strike it. Neptune was already
unsubstantial in the twilight, half god, half ghost, and his
fountain plashed dreamily to the men and satyrs who idled
together on its marge. The Loggia showed as the triple entrance
of a cave, wherein many a deity, shadowy, but immortal, looking
forth upon the arrivals and departures of mankind. It was the
hour of unreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are
real. An older person at such an hour and in such a place might
think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content.
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