I went on, not wanting to see. I went along a very dusty road. But it
was not so terrifying, this road. Perhaps it was older.
In dreary little Chiasso I drank coffee, and watched the come and go
through the Customs. The Swiss and the Italian Customs officials had
their offices within a few yards of each other, and everybody must stop.
I went in and showed my rucksack to the Italian, then I mounted a tram,
and went to the Lake of Como.
In the tram were dressed-up women, fashionable, but business-like. They
had come by train to Chiasso, or else had been shopping in the town.
When we came to the terminus a young miss, dismounting before me, left
behind her parasol. I had been conscious of my dusty, grimy appearance
as I sat in the tram, I knew they thought me a workman on the roads.
However, I forgot that when it was time to dismount.
'_Pardon, Mademoiselle_,' I said to the young miss. She turned and
withered me with a rather overdone contempt--'_bourgeoise_,' I said to
myself, as I looked at her--'_Vous avez laisse votre parasol_.'
She turned, and with a rapacious movement darted upon her parasol.
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