She drank in the landscape and the little villages and stern or Gothic churches, the trees and the wildflowers she had never seen, and even the changing light as the sky grew dark and ominous with rain, the clouds squatting heavily over the rounds of the hills. He shook his head. I will write of Cassandra's face, alight with joy over the view. You're so extravagant. He lifted a brow.
Extravagance is the mark of rakes.
I am Italian. And a poet. His eyes glittered. For truly, there are not enough words to do justice to your glory, my Cassandra. Only the flare of his nostrils gave away his tease.