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The darkness and heat of the room, the melancholy with which all the tunes of a grinding organ seem impregnated, the complicated sounds from the fair outside, from which now and again the voices of the Roman ice-venders detached themselves, even the tapping of the heavy boots of the dancers upon the floor of brick all things in this hour moved him to a certain dreariness of the spirit which was touched with sentimentality.
"Romans here! What are they doing?" "They have a cart decorated with flags, signorino, and they are selling lemon-water and ices. All the people say that they are Romans and that is how they sing in Rome." The long and lugubrious chant of the ice-venders rose up again, strident and melancholy as a song chanted over a corpse. "It's funny to sing like that to sell ices," Maurice said.
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