While we ascended, there was the deadened sound, as from the cafe, of
men singing (in throbbing voices to mandolines and guitars) one of the
Italian songs which I remembered to have heard from the piazza outside
the convent on that night when Sister Angela left me in bed while she
went off to visit the chaplain:
"_Oh bella Napoli, Oh suol beato
Onde sorridere volle il creato._"
"The Italian Club," said Angela. "Only one flight more. Come!"
ONE HUNDRED AND FIRST CHAPTER
At length Angela opened, with a key from her satchel, a door on the top
landing, and we entered a darkened room which was partly in the roof.
As we stepped in I heard rapid breathing, which told me that we were in
a sick chamber, and then a man's voice, very husky and weak, saying:
"Is that you, Agnes?"
"It's only me, dear," said Angela..
After a moment she turned up the solitary gas-jet, which had been
burning low, and I saw the shadowy form of a man lying in a bed that
stood in a corner. He was wasted with consumption, his long bony hands
were lying on the counterpane, his dark hair was matted over his
forehead as from sweat, but I could not mistake the large, lively grey
eyes that looked out of his long thin face.
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