The books slid from her arms and fluttered to the floor. By the time he had reached the summit of this hill, he had lost all trace of them; and the ardour of the chase having in some measure subsided, he began to reproach himself for his folly, in having wandered—as he conceived—so far out of his course. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. He drew her closer. She worried for her father in Mantua, 28 hoping that he was still alive.
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