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Updated: May 22, 2025
"It is some fellow in love. Heaven pardon me if I have done wrong! He seemed so anxious to know that the woman had been here why should I not content him? Poveretto! He must be rich. I will always tell him what he wants to know. Heaven bring him often and bless him." Then she rocked herself backwards and forwards, hugging her pot of coals and crooning the words of an ancient Roman ditty
"He had been ill, Signore, and it was raining hard. Poveretto! He had had the fever. It was bad for him to be out in the boat." "So Ruffo's getting hold of you too!" thought Artois. He pulled at his cigar once or twice. Then he said: "Do you think he looks like a Sicilian?" Gaspare's eyes met his steadily. "A Sicilian, Signore?" "Yes." "Signore, he is a Sicilian. How should he not look like one?"
Svensen's narrations of his Arctic explorations, and greatly revered him, said, "But I don't believe he's done anything." "Not done a get-away, you mean? Well now, why should he, after all? Perhaps he fell right into this deep lake after dining, and couldn't get out, poveretto. Yet he was a real fine swimmer they say." "Most improbable," said Henry, who had dismissed that hypothesis already.
Tears are shed, and the spectators cry out with one accord, "Poveretto!" The fact is, his crime is ten years old. Nobody recollects what it was. He has expiated it by ten years of penitence. Ten years ago his execution would have conveyed a striking moral lesson. So much for the severity of penal justice. You would laugh if I were to speak of its leniency.
To the Neapolitan all Americans are rich; they are the only forestieri who are always ready to throw money about, regardless of results. The Englishman, now, when the poveretto puts out his unlovely hand, looks calmly over his head and drives on. It is to the American, then, that the beggar looks for his daily macaroni. They were nearly a week in Naples.
The woman lifted the lace veil from the tiny face and showed him the sightless eyes. He crossed himself. "Poveretto! Dio vi benedica!" As Olive left the sacristy a tall man came across the aisle towards her. It was Prince Tor di Rocca. "This is a great pleasure," he said. "But not to you, I am afraid. You are not glad to see me." "I am surprised. I do you often come into churches?" He laughed.
He pointed to a boat at some distance, moving slowly in the direction of Posilipo. "I have been talking with them. One says he is of my country, a Sicilian." "The boy?" "Si, Signore, the giovinotto. But he cannot speak Sicilian, and he has never been in Sicily, poveretto!" Gaspare spoke with an accent of pity in which there was almost a hint of contempt.
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