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VI. A Festa.
"YOU didn't tell us what a beauty Mrs. Daymond was, Uncle Dan," said May, as they sat at dinner that evening.
They had a small table to themselves, close by one of the long glass doors opening out into the garden. It was a warm evening, and sweet, vagrant perfumes came straying in at the open door, and in the momentary hush which sometimes falls upon the noisiest table d'hôte, pretty plashing sounds could be heard in the Canal beyond the garden.
"Not a very easy thing to do," said Uncle Dan, setting down his glass of
