"
"And if I had chanced not to be in the gallery at the Belle Arti
that day," rejoined Paolina, with a shudder at the thought of what
the consequences of such an absence would have been.
"You will have the great church entirely to yourself, anima mia,"
said Ludovico; "there is not a soul near the place, save the old
monk, who keeps the keys, and a lay-brother, who was ill, the poor
old frate said, when I was there. It is a dreary place, my Paolina,
and I am afraid you will find your task a weary one. I fear it will
be cold too."
"Oh, I don't mind that much! What is more important, is to get the
job done before the hot weather comes on. They say it is so
unhealthy out there, when the heat comes. What is the old frate
like?"
"He is a very old, old man, and he looks as if fever and ague every
summer and autumn had pretty nearly made an end of him. He seemed
quite inclined to be civil and obliging. If he were not, you could
knock him down with a tap of your maulstick, I should think, though
it be wielded by such a tiny, dainty little bit of a hand," said
Ludovico, lifting it to his lips between both his as he spoke. "And
now tell me," he continued; "what did you think of the third act
last night? Did she not sing that finale superbly?"
"Superbly,--certainly the finest singing I heard. But--"
"What is the `but,' anima mia? I confess I thought it perfect.
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