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could be seen of them through the trees. Linda knew at once that this was an established and well-to-do foreign colony. The houses themselves, some very new and others in foreign architectural styles, told the tale. To the left of the road, gnarled olive trees stood, their greygreen foliage dry with summer drought, waiting for the winter rains. In the gardens surrounding the houses, well-watered green lawns and bright flowers replaced the fruitful but drab olive. |
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Farther along the paved stretch, where the houses thinned and retreated even deeper into the seclusion of their gardens and shading cypresses, Gertrude directed the driver to turn. The driveway looped, and there was the house. Linda smiled. She could have trusted Mrs. Bates's impeccable taste. Here was no transplanted English cottage or manor house. The villa was obviously native to its surroundings, a pale creamy yellow, not bright enough to dazzle the eyes in the sun but well able to reflect away heat and tinted enough to look cheerful on a grey, rainy day. |
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As soon as the cab pulled up, the front door opened and an elderly man, as gnarled and dry as the olives, hopped spryly out across the wide verandah. Gertrude greeted him with assurance and familiarity, and he began to unload the valises from the trunk and front seat while the driver took down what had been lashed to the roof. Linda reached for her tote and Mrs. Bates's |
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