the next room she had given to her mule and her poultry, and a fine black pig. The floors were of stone, and the ceilings too; there was an open hearth that served her for cooking; the hearth now was cold.
She first put her money into a secret place, stabled her mule, counted her fowls, to be sure none were stolen, and then lit a little fire and put on a pot of vegetable soup. Then she sat down and thought while her frugal supper was simmering.
She did not tell anyone of what she had seen, and heard, and promised in Grosseto. She was not a sociable woman, and she had only neighbours, no friends.
Joconda Romanelli had been taciturn and grave for forty years; ever since one summer day, when her man had gone down in a white squall, like that which wrecked Shelley. She had loved the man, and had been sternly faithful to him and to the offspring he had left her. She had always got her own living by carrying cargo to the coasters for her husband's comrades, and taking her linen into Grosseto; in bad weather she sat at home and span, or made fishing nets and sewed sails. She was
