The hotel and its bright tan prayer rug of a beach were one. Now, many bungalows cluster near it, but when this story begins only the cupolas of a dozen old villas rotted like water lilies among the massed pines between Gausse’s Hôtel des Étrangers and Cannes, five miles away. Lately it has become a summer resort of notable and fashionable people a decade ago it was almost deserted after its English clientele went north in April. Deferential palms cool its flushed façade, and before it stretches a short dazzling beach. On the pleasant shore of the French Riviera, about half way between Marseilles and the Italian border, stands a large, proud, rose-colored hotel. Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
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