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Photos from a trip to Corsica in 2006 as well as from the internet illustrating the locales and topics cited in my new
novel. Correcsponding text from the novel itself.
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| Lake at top of Restonica Valley |
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| Where Antoine takes Elizabeth on first hike |
Chapter 5 - They hiked on, enjoying the silence of the high valley. In
a half-hour they reached the spot Antoine had referred to as the most beautiful spot in the world. And
gazing at the round lapis-blue lake in front of her, reflecting, like a perfect mirror, the jagged peaks of glistening granite
that marched down the valley, Elizabeth was inclined to agree. The stillness of the place was amplified
by the slow circling of a bird of prey, caught in the updrafts.
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| The tools of the Signadora |
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| Where Mrs. Standhope discovers her destiny |
Chapter 3 - Mrs. Standhope
looked to her husband for reassurance then cupped her hands around the bowl. The signadora’s eyelids
drooped. She seemed to be entering a state of trance. Barely audible prayers vibrated
her pencil thin lips. As the oil dispersed, the signadora prodded it with her little finger, attempting
to make it coalesce. Suddenly, a high-pitched, jumbled stream of words in the Corsican tongue spouted from
her mouth. Mrs. Standhope sprang back, her hands
flying in the air. The Professor, placing a calming hand on her shoulder, translated. “She
said, ‘may such a thing never come into the home of any family.’”
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| The Indochine villa... |
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| ...where Antoine takes Elizabeth in Niolo |
Within a few minutes, Antoine pulled up again, this time in front of a walled
three-story house built in the style of a colonial villa. “My God, where did this come from?” Elizabeth asked, shocked at the contrast of this stately but dilapidated
residence to the simple stone houses in the rest of the village. A wrought iron gate guarded by two Oriental
porcelain lions marked the entrance. As they
approached the gate, an emaciated elderly man of uncertain origin, dressed in a red silk Chinese jacket and coolie hat, scurried
out to meet them.
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| An FLNC funeral... |
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| ...in Corte |
Suddenly, the somber peal of tower’s bells
spread a hush over the crowd, broken only by soft wailing. Elizabeth strained to see over the heads of
those in front of her. Then, in slow procession a phalanx of twenty hooded and fully armed FLNC guerrillas
marched onto the raised platform and stood at attention, ten on each side. As the hooded men raised their
automatic weapons to create an arch, the crowd went wild, shouting in solidarity, men raising their fists and the women amplifying
their wail of grief. The funeral procession emerged led by the red robed priest, a crucifer and two acolytes
bearing candles. Henri’s casket, hoisted on the shoulders of six pallbearers, was draped with the
Corsican flag, a black silhouetted Moor’s head with a white headband against a field of white.
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| The cemetery at Bonifacio... |
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| ...where final goodbyes are said. |
Elizabeth shook her head in disbelief as they continued to walk, skirting
the deserted two-story military barracks, their walls riddled with automatic weapon fire and covered with separatist graffiti.
Reaching the cemetery, Elizabeth stared at the elaborately styled neighborhood of family crypts, created in a hodgepodge
of architectural styles. Some even had a Moorish theme, but stone crosses atop their domed roofs identified
them as Christian.The wound their way
between the tombs until they could overlook the sea, which pounded against the base of the white cliffs hundreds of feet down.
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