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Updated: June 19, 2025
"And mercy, how the wind can blow there! This is nothing to it. I don't think you have any winds in England so violent as our temporali." Anthony nodded, with satisfaction. "Please go on," he urged. "I have been longing to hear more about Sampaolo." "Oh?" said Susanna, looking sceptical. "I feared I had wearied you inexcusably with Sampaolo."
The Commendatore, however, was a thousand miles from these considerations. He glared fiercely at her as fiercely as it was in his mild old eyes to glare. He held himself erect and aloof, in a posture that was eloquent of haughty indignation. "I will ask your Excellency a single question. Are you or are you not the Countess of Sampaolo?" he demanded sternly. But Susanna was incorrigible.
He was walking about the room. "Do you mean to say " he came to a standstill "that if I make a journey to Sampaolo, you will be my wife?" "I mean to say that I will never be your wife unless you do." "But if I do ?" She leaned back, smiling, among her cushions. "That will depend upon the result of your journey." He shook his head again. "I 'm utterly at sea," he professed.
"The present Prefect of Sampaolo," she continued her illustrations, "formerly kept a disreputable public house, a sailors' tavern, at Ancona. He is known to be a Camorrista; and though his salary is only a few thousand lire, he lives with the ostentation of a parvenu millionaire, and no one doubts where he gets his money. These evils are felt by everyone.
"Why on earth should you impose such a condition?" He frowned his incomprehension. "Because you have asked me to be your wife," she answered. He shook his head, mournfully, scornfully. "If ever an explanation darkened counsel!" mournfully he jeered. "You have asked me to be your wife. I reply that first you must make a journey to Sampaolo. Is that not simple?" said Susanna.
Seven tiny sailing-boats, monotypes, the entire fleet, indeed, of the Reale Yacht Club d'Ilaria had described a triangle in the bay, with Vallanza, Presa, and Veno as its points; and I need n't tell anyone who knows the island of Sampaolo that the Marchese Baldo del Ponte's Mermaid, English name and all, had come home easily the first.
"S. del Valdeschi della Spina, Contessa di Sampaolo." "Al Illmo. Signore, S. E. il Conte di Sampaolo, Alla Villa del Ponte, Vallanza." Anthony, his cousin's letter held at arm's length, turned to the white-bearded Capuchin, where he stood in his brown habit, patiently waiting, with his clasped hands covered by his sleeves.
His change of mood was all the more noteworthy, perhaps, because the yacht chanced to be the Fiorimondo, bearing the Countess of Sampaolo and her suite from Venice, whither it had proceeded two days before, upon orders telegraphed from Paris. Adrian, coming in, saw Anthony's letter, superscribed and stamped, lying on the table. "I 'm posting a lot of stuff of my own," he said.
She paused for a few seconds. "Then there was a plebiscite," she proceeded, "and Sampaolo solemnly transformed itself into a province of the Kingdom of Sardinia." She paused again. "And the Wicked Uncle," she again proceeded, "received his price from Turin. First, he was appointed Prefect of Sampaolo for life.
"This bosom is a sealed sanctuary for the confidences of those who confide in me. Besides, when I 'm with Madame Torrebianca, believe me, we have other subjects of conversation than the poor Squire o' Craford." "You see," said Anthony, "for the lark of the thing, I should like, for the present, to leave her in ignorance of my connection with Sampaolo." "That's right," cried Adrian.
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