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"And get little more from him!" said one of the fishermen, who was jealous of Salvatore's good-fortune. Salvatore laughed loudly. He had drunk a good deal of wine and he had had a great deal of money given to him. "I shall find another English fool, perhaps!" he said. "Chi lo sa?" "And his cristiana?" asked another fisherman. "What is she like?"
Prices were passionately discussed, values debated. All down the table went the words "soldi," "lire," "lire sterline," "biglietti da cinque," "biglietti da dieci." Salvatore's hatred died away, suffocated for the moment under the weight of his avarice. A donkey yes, he meant to get a donkey with the stranger's money. But why stop there?
The very rain was different straight rain, falling properly on to one's umbrella; not that violently blowing English stuff that got in everywhere. And it did leave off; and when it did, behold the earth would be strewn with roses. Mr. Briggs, San Salvatore's owner, had said, "You get out at Mezzago, and then you drive."
He was silent for a moment; then he added: "Salvatore might be there now. Do you want him to see you?" "Why not?" A project began to form in his mind. If he took Gaspare with him they might go to the cottage more naturally. Gaspare knew Salvatore and could introduce him, could say well, that he wanted sometimes to go out fishing and would take Salvatore's boat.
"Signor Pretore, I do not know. I did not look at the clock. But it was before sunset it was well before sunset." "And the signore only came down from the Casa del Prete very late," interposed Artois, quietly. "I was there and kept him. It was quite evening before he started." An expression of surprise went over Salvatore's face and vanished.
Glory, she's the best seller Toni Salvatore's got, an' he often chucks her in a bag fer herself, besides. Fifty-five'd be fair, eh, Take-a-Stitch?" Glancing at Glory's sunny face, Miss Laura did not wonder at the child's success.
Cramped, stiff with rheumatism, half dead from fatigue and suffering from a bad cough himself, he left the stable at eight o'clock next morning, hopeful that the miserable beast would pull through, and stepped round to Salvatore's lunch cart for a bowl of coffee and a hot dog.
Long since, through the medium of a series of friendly chats, he had heard all about Salvatore's home in Italy, the little newspaper and tobacco shop which his mother owned down on Seventh Avenue, and a hundred other personal details. Archie had an insatiable curiosity about his fellow-man. "Well done," said Archie. "Sare?" "The steak. Not too rare, you know." "Very good, sare."
They are dirty, but " "That's all right. And we'll sit outside and tell stories, stories of brigands and the sea. Salvatore, when you know me, you'll know I'm a true Sicilian." He grasped Salvatore's hand, but he looked at Maddalena. Night had come to the Sirens' Isle a night that was warm, gentle, and caressing.
What's he doing now with Caesar Maruffi if he isn't after him for money?" Blake's amusement suddenly gave place to eagerness. "Maruffi!" he exclaimed. "What's this?" "Joe Poggi is blackmailing Caesar Maruffi out of the money to defend his friends. He was at di Marco's house an hour before Salvatore's arrest. I saw him with Garcia and Bolla and Cardoni more than once."
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