Andrea caught scraps here and there of a highly-spiced
nature and, once or twice, the name of a newspaper famous in the annals
of London scandal. He longed to hear more; a terrible curiosity took
possession of him. His imagination conjured up Lord Heathfield's hands
before him--so white, so significant, so expressive, so impossible to
forget. Musellaro was still talking, and now said--
'Let us go--I want to tell you----'
On the stairs they encountered Albonico, who was coming up. He was in
deep mourning for Donna Ippolita, and Andrea stopped to ask for details
of the sad event. He had heard of her death when he was in Paris in
November from Guido Montelatici, a cousin of Donna Ippolita.
'Was it really typhus?'
The wan and pale-eyed widower grasped at an occasion for pouring out his
griefs, for he made a display of his bereavement as, at one time, he had
made a display of his wife's beauty. He stammered and grew lachrymose
and his colourless eyes seemed bulging from his head.
Seeing that the widower's elegy threatened to be somewhat long drawn
out, Musellaro said to Andrea--
'If we don't take care, we shall be late.'
Andrea accordingly took leave of Albonico, promising to hear the rest of
the funeral oration very shortly, and went away with Musellaro.
The meeting with Albonico had re-awakened the singular emotion--partly
regret, partly a certain peculiar satisfaction--which he had experienced
for several days after hearing the news of this death.
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