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Updated: May 16, 2025
The doctor's servant-woman, a somewhat grimy peasant, was sitting on the stairs, sobbing loudly. "It is useless," moaned Sor Tommaso. "I am dead." "I may be mistaken," answered Dalrymple, "but I think not." And he continued his operations with a sure hand, greatly to the admiration of Stefanone, who had often seen knife-wounds dressed. Gradually Sor Tommaso became more calm.
"Nothing," answered Annetta, looking down and arranging the knives and forks symmetrically on the clean cloth she had laid. "I might have killed him just now in hot blood, when the Englishman came in," said Stefanone, reflectively. "But now my blood has grown cold. I shall do nothing to him." "So much the better for him." She still spoke in a low voice, as she turned away from the table.
At the door of the little wine shop Stefanone was seated on one of the rush stools, his hat tilted over his eyes, and his white-stockinged legs crossed. He was smoking and looking down, but he recognized Griggs's step at some distance, and raised his eyes. Griggs nodded to him familiarly, passing along on the other side of the narrow street, and he saw Stefanone's expression.
Dalrymple struck a light, for he had a supply of matches with him, a convenience of modern life not at that time known in Subiaco, except as an expensive toy, though already in use in Rome. As he was, he opened the door. Stefanone came in, dressed in his shirt and breeches, pale with excitement.
Stefanone had made the acquaintance of the one-eyed cobbler without difficulty and had ascertained that there was a mystery about Gloria, whom the cobbler had first seen on the morning after Stefanone had met her in the storm.
As for Sor Tommaso, with whom Stefanone seemed inclined to quarrel on this particular evening, he was a highly respectable personage in a narrow-shouldered, high-collared black coat with broad skirts, and a snuff-coloured waistcoat. He wore a stock which was decidedly shabby, but decent, and the thin cuffs of his shirt were turned back over the tight sleeves of his coat, in the old fashion.
This was my thought let them be reconciled, and spend an evening together. They will speak of the dead one. They will shed tears. They will embrace. Let the enmity be finished. In this way they will enjoy life more." "You are crazy, Stefanone," answered Griggs, impatiently. "But how do you know who is the father of the Signora?"
Stefanone came in, laid his hat upon the bench, and put his stick in the corner just as he had always done. There was no change, except that Annetta was not there, and the husband and wife had grown almost old since those days. "How often does the post go to Rome?" Gloria asked of Sora Nanna, while they were at supper. "Every evening, at one of the night, Signora.
But Stefanone had never seen the real foreigner at close quarters, and had not conceived it possible that any living human being could devour so much half-cooked flesh in a day as Dalrymple desired for his daily portion, paid for, and consumed.
When he had finished eating, Stefanone produced his little piece of oilstone, which he carried wrapped in dingy paper, and having greased it proceeded to draw the blade over it slowly and smoothly. "Apoplexy!" ejaculated the host. "Are you not contented? Or perhaps you wish to shave with it?" "Thus I keep it," answered the peasant, smiling. "A minute here, a minute there. The time costs nothing.
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