The Fate of Faustina
pected to have the opposite effect, the thing indeed that had forced his confidence, the organ and the voice once more beneath our very windows:
"Margarita de Parete,
era a' sarta d' e' signore;
se pugneva sempe e ddete
pe penzare a Salvatore!
"Mar—ga—rì,
e perzo e Salvatore!
Mar—ga—rì,
Ma rommo è cacciatore!
Mar—ga—rì,
Nun ce aje corpa tu!
Chello ch' è fatto, è fatto, un ne parlammo cchieǜ!"
I simply stared at Raffles. Instead of deepening, his lines had vanished. He looked years younger, mischievous and merry and alert as I remembered him of old in the breathless crisis of some madcap escapade. He was holding up his finger; he was stealing to the window; he was peeping through the blind as though our side street were Scotland Yard itself; he was stealing back again, all revelry, excitement, and suspense.
"I half thought they were after me before," said he. "That was why I made you look. I
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