Sucks books

Two women climbed together up the great acclivity of Griante. One
was brown and elderly, clad in black with an orange rag wrapped
about her brow--a sturdy, muscular creature who carried a great,
empty wicker basket upon her shoulders; the other was clad in a rosy
jumper of silk: she flashed in the morning fires and brought an
added beauty to that beautiful scene.
Jenny ascended the mountain as lightly as a butterfly. She was
lovelier than ever in the morning light, yet a misty doubt, a
watchful sadness, seemed to hover upon her forehead. Her wonderful
eyes looked ahead up the precipitous tract that she and the Italian
woman climbed together. She moderated her pace to the slower gait of
the elder and presently they both stopped before a little grey
chapel perched beside the hill path.
Mr. Albert Redmayne's silkworms, in the great airy shed behind his
villa, had nearly all spun their cocoons now, for it was June again
and the annual crop of mulberry leaves in the valleys beneath were
well-nigh exhausted.


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