Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: June 21, 2025
"Signore Sindaco, I cannot stop to listen to any grievance now; I will promise no indulgence. I must pay my bills. You must pay me, Signore Sindaco; that is but fair." The poor little snuffy mayor bows a dolorous acquiescence. He is hopeless, but polite like a true Italian, who would thank the hangman as he fastens the rope round his neck.
"Not now, Enrica, not now. To-morrow we will speak." Meanwhile Count Nobili, Fra Pacifico, and the Corellia men, strove what human strength could do to put the fire out. Even the sindaco, forgetting the threats about his rent, labored hard and willingly only Silvestro did nothing. Silvestro seemed stunned; he sat upon the ground staring, and crying like a child.
I wondered whether the Sindaco and his portly friend sat in their comfortable room whilst the roaring went on; whether they smoked their cigars as usual, and continued to chat at their ease. Very likely. The privileged classes in Italy are slow to move, and may well believe in the boundless endurance of those below them. Some day, no doubt, they will have a disagreeable surprise.
Something must be done, so Ser Giacomo he runs and fetches the sindaco from inside the recesses of the café, where he is playing dominoes under a lighted lamp. The sindaco must give the marchesa a formal welcome. The sindaco, a saddler by trade a snuffy little man, with a face drawn and yellow as parchment, wearing his working-clothes advances to the carriage with a step as cautious as a cat.
The sindaco having sent a boy up to Silvestro's house with the marchesa's message, "that he is to attend her," the steward comes hurrying down through the terraces cut in the steep ground behind the villa broad, stately terraces, with balustrades, and big empty vases, and statues, and grand old lemon-trees set about.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking