He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. Gianfrancesco’s had curved differently and was darker. . He walked on for an hour longer, till he could scarcely drag one leg after another. The voice of the young seaman came floating down from the masthead, and the story of the immortal lovers had begun. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention.
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