other. At last she said in a low sweet voice, with an accent so distinct that it suggested foreignness and yet was not foreign, "I saw you before;"… and then added, dreamily, after a like pause, "nella miseria."
Deronda, not understanding the connection of her thought, supposed that her mind was weakened by distress and hunger.
"It was you, singing?" she went on, hesitatingly—"Nessun maggior dolore."… The mere words themselves uttered in her sweet undertones seemed to give the melody to Deronda's ear.
"Ah, yes," he said, understanding now, "I am often singing them. But I fear you will injure yourself staying here. Pray let me carry you in my boat to some place of safety. And that wet cloak—let me take it."
He would not attempt to take it without her leave, dreading lest he should scare her. Even at his words, he fancied that she shrank and clutched the cloak more tenaciously. But her eyes were fixed on him with a question in them as she said, "You look good. Perhaps it is God's command."
"Do trust me. Let me help you. I will die before I will let any harm come to you."
She rose from her sitting posture, first dragging the saturated cloak and then letting it fall on
