There had been domestic
potations; a very fat lady, with a horn comb in her hair, wiped liquid
rings off the table with her apron, removing the glasses, while a
collarless male person with an agreeable smile and a soft felt hat
placed wooden chairs for us in a row. Poppa knows no Italian, but they
seemed to understand from what he said that we wanted things to drink,
and brought us with surprising accuracy precisely what each of us
preferred, lemonade for momma and me, and beverages consisting largely,
though not entirely, of soda water for the Senator and Mr. Dod. While
we refreshed ourselves, another, elderly, grizzled, and one-eyed, came
and took up a position just outside the door opposite and sang a song of
adventurous love, boxing his own ears in the chorus with the liveliest
effect. A further agreeable person waited upon us and informed us that
he was the interpreter, he would everything explain to us, that this was
a beggar man who wanted us to give him some small money, but there was
no compulsion if we did not wish to do so. I think he gave us that
interpretation for nothing.
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