A Spirit in Prison by Robert Smythe Hichens
page 88 of 862 (10%)
page 88 of 862 (10%)
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The Marchesino laid one hand eagerly on the arm of his friend. "I believe you do! I am sure of it! The mother--she is flat as a Carabiniere, and quite old, but with nice eyes, sympathetic, intelligent. And the girl is a little brown--from the sun--with eyes full of fun and fire, dark eyes. She may be Italian, and yet--there is something English, too. But she is not blonde, she is not cold. And when she laughs! Her teeth are not like the keys of a piano from Bordicelli's. And she is full of passion, of flame, of sentiment, as I am. And she is young, perhaps sixteen. Do you know her? Present me, Emilio! I have presented you to all my friends." "Mio caro, you have made me your debtor for life." "It isn't true!" "Indeed it is true. But I do not know who these ladies are. They may be Italians. They may be tourists. Perhaps to-morrow they will have left Naples. Or they may come from Sorrento, Capri. How can I tell who they are?" The Marchesino suddenly changed. His ardor vanished. His gesticulating hands fell to his sides. His expressive face grew melancholy. "Of course. How can you tell? Directly I was out of the sea and dressed, I went to Santa Lucia. I examined every boat, but the white boat with the green line was not there, Basta!" He lit a fresh cigarette and was silent for a moment. Then he said: |
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