They had reached the end of the park, where olive trees were more dense. They marched to open paths through high mass of wild vegetation and fragrant sap could challenge its maritime environment brava loaded with salt. They were hard-leaved plants and exotic perfume exhaled intense. Novoa, the vacuuming, evoked visions distant geographies. An odor of incense and rice seasoned with karri hung over the garden jungle. From one tree to another kind of tended vines. These natural wreaths had begun to bloom in winter, under the breath of early spring, standing with a magnificent feast on the green gallant severe and pale olive trees.

-Don Atilio says this reminds him of a Mozart symphony.

The Mediterranean was at his feet, deep blue, combing her hair with slow nods in a row of sharp rocks of the threads that drew water bubbling foam. Branched off the cliff here, forming the two arms of a fork uneven. The shortest was an extension of the park, taking in the magnificent waters grove puffed his back. The other down to the sea as a chaos of loose rocks and soils, without some twisted pines clinging to the ground, stubbornly determined to prolong their agony. The misery and abandonment of this tongue of land ripped painful grimace every time Colonel held out his view over the dividing wall. The end ruined, bitten by the sea, with caves that threatened to become narrow, without fixed input, isolated from the mainland by the gardens of Villa-Sirena wall defended by a hostile, impenetrable representation of property rights was for Don Marcos a source of indignation and outrage.