“Where are we going, Dad?” Nick asked.

I wrote out for him where to eat in Milano and the addresses of comrades.

Ahead were the lights of the shanties where the Indian bark-peelers lived.

The doctor came running from the corral, where he had been sewing up picador horses.

He reported at Bologna, and I took him with me up into the Romagna where it was necessary I go to see a man.

Nick sat against the wall of the church where they had dragged him to be clear of machine gun fire in the street.

It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York⁠—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land.

It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself.

Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind.