One evening as we sat on the Pincian Hill, in the semi-tropical garden, overlooking the domes and towers of the Imperial City, Quinet broke our silence, and surprised me by saying abruptly:
"Let us go to England."
"What for?"
"Let us go; I wish to go."
"But what is your press about England. I thought you hated the English."
"I do not hate the English. Among whom are there more amiable friends, more beautiful women. I am seized with a wish to see that great people in their country."
"You hated them some time ago."
"In the present tense, that verb has with me the peculiarity of parsing itself negatively."
I reflected a little on this change of opinion in Quinet, and its possible causes, till he again broke out abruptly:
"Miss Carter gave me a message for you."