I forget mainly what we talked about,--a good deal about art, of course,
although that is a subject of which Miss Bremer evidently knows nothing.
Once we spoke of fleas,--insects that, in Rome, come home to everybody's
business and bosom, and are so common and inevitable, that no delicacy is
felt about alluding to the sufferings they inflict. Poor little Miss
Bremer was tormented with one while turning out our tea. . . . . She
talked, among other things, of the winters in Sweden, and said that she
liked them, long and severe as they are; and this made me feel ashamed of
dreading the winters of New England, as I did before coming from home,
and do now still more, after five or six mild English Decembers.
By and by, two young ladies came in,--Miss Bremen's neighbors, it
seemed,--fresh from a long walk on the campagna, fresh and weary at the
same time. One apparently was German, and the other French, and they
brought her an offering of flowers, and chattered to her with
affectionate vivacity; and, as we were about taking leave, Miss Bremer
asked them to accompany her and us on a visit to the edge of the Tarpeian
Rock.
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