Then Miss Lavish darted under the archway of the white bullocks, and she stopped, and she cried:

‘A smell! A true Florentine smell! Every city, let me teach you, has its own smell.’
‘Is it a very nice smell?’ said Lucy, who had inherited from her mother a distaste to dirt.
‘One doesn’t come to Italy for niceness,’ was the retort; ‘one comes for life.’(16)

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