Explore "Santa Lucia" by John Galsworthy on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Returning from the English church at Monte Carlo towards his hotel, old Trevillian paused at a bend in the road to rest his thin calves. Through a mimosa-tree the sea was visible, very blue, and Trevillian's eyes rested on it with the filmy brown stare of old age.
Monte Carlo was changed, but that blue, tideless, impassive sea was the same as on his first visit forty-five years ago, and this was pleasant to one conservative by nature. Since then he had married, made money and inherited more, ‘raised,' as Americans called it, a family -- all, except his daughter Agatha, out in the world -- had been widowed, and developed old man's cough. He and Agatha now left The Cedars, their country house in Hertfordshire, for the Riviera, with the annual regularity of swallows. Usually they stayed at Nice or Cannes, but this year, because a friend of Agatha's was the wife of the English chaplain, they had chosen Monte Carlo.