change quickly, and Vere's presently changed.

She came out of the house, and passing over the bridge that connected
together the two cliffs of which the islet was composed, reached the
limit of the islet. At the edge of the precipice was a seat, and there
she sat down. For some time she rested motionless, absorbing the
beauty and the silence of the night. She was looking towards Ischia.
She wished to look that way, to forget all about Naples, the great
city which lay behind her.

Here were the ancient caves darkening with their mystery the silver
wonder of the sea. Here the venerable shore stretched towards lands
she did not know. They called to the leaping desires of her heart as
the city did not call. They carried her away.

Often, from this seat, on dark and moonless nights, she had watched
the fishermen's torches flaring below her in the blackness, and had
thrilled at the mystery of their occupation, and had imagined them
lifting from the sea strange and wonderful treasures, that must change
the current of their lives: pearls such as had never before been given
to the breasts of women, caskets that had lain for years beneath the
waters, bottles in which were stoppered up magicians who, released,
came forth in smoke, as in the Eastern story.

Once she had spoken of this last imagination to Gaspare, and had seen
his face suddenly change and look excited, vivid, and then sad. She
had asked him why he looked like that, and, after a moment of
hesitation, he had told her how, long ago, before she was born, his
Padrone had read to him such a tale as they lay together upon a
mountain side in Sicily. Vere had eagerly questioned him, and he,