Even the light was different in Athens, soft and golden, sweet as the morning dew blessed by Athena herself. She stood on the mat instead, and looked down on him. . “Why did you do it?” her aunt urged. "Oh! nothin' partickler—mere curossity," replied Terence. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. ‘Lord,’ he uttered, glancing about with a disparaging eye.
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