‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. She was writhing to get her hands loose and found herself gasping with passionate violence, “It’s damnable!—damnable!” to the manifest disgust of the fatherly policeman on her right. She had taken care he should have this momentous talk with her on a garden-seat commanded by the windows of the house. Here the prisoners took exercise; and a quaint, but striking picture has been left of their appearance when so engaged, by the author of the English Rogue. The Plague raced through the city and the Palazzo, consuming it like fire. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. "Fifty now and fifty when I return. CHAPTER III.
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