rewriting."

Montanelli went on with his work. A sleepy
cockchafer hummed drowsily outside the window,
and the long, melancholy call of a fruitseller echoed
down the street: "Fragola! fragola!"

"'On the Healing of the Leper'; here it is."
Arthur came across the room with the velvet tread
that always exasperated the good folk at home.
He was a slender little creature, more like an Italian
in a sixteenth-century portrait than a middle-class
English lad of the thirties. From the long
eyebrows and sensitive mouth to the small hands
and feet, everything about him was too much
chiseled, overdelicate. Sitting still, he might
have been taken for a very pretty girl masquerading
in male attire; but when he moved, his lithe
agility suggested a tame panther without the
claws.

"Is that really it? What should I do
without you, Arthur? I should always be losing
my things. No, I am not going to write any
more now. Come out into the garden, and I will
help you with your work. What is the bit you
couldn't understand?"

They went out into the still, shadowy cloister
garden. The seminary occupied the buildings of