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santest, an aguish chill disturbed my enjoyment of the service.
This discomfort so increased in the course of the day that, as I sat at dinner, I could with difficulty carry a morsel from my plate to my lips.
‘This is a chill,’ said my sister.
‘You ought to go to bed at once.’
I insisted upon remaining to play for the promised dance, and argued that the fever would presently succeed the chill, and that I should then be warm enough.
I passed the evening in great bodily discomfort, but managed to play quadrilles, waltzes, and the endless Virginia Reel.
When at last I reached home and my bed, the fever did come with a will.
I was fortunate enough to recover very quickly from this indisposition, and did not forget the warning which it gave me of the dangers of the Roman climate.
The shivering evening left me a happier recollection.
Among my sister's guests was Horace Binney Wallace, of Philadelphia, whom I had once met in his own city.
He had angered me at that time by his ridicule of Boston society, of which he really knew little or nothing.
He was now in a less aggressive frame of mind, and this second meeting with him was the beginning of a much-valued friendship.
We visited together many points of historic interest in the city,—the Pantheon, the Tarpeian Rock, the bridge of Horatius Cocles.
He had
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