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Raffles

The Fate Of Faustina
"Mar--ga--ri,
e perzo a Salvatore! Mar--ga--ri,
Ma l'ommo e cacciatore! Mar--ga--ri,
Nun ce aje corpa tu!
Chello ch' e fatto, e fatto, un ne parlammo cchieu!"
A piano-organ was pouring the metallic music through our open windows, while a
voice of brass brayed the words, which I have since obtained, and print above for
identification by such as know their Italy better than I. They will not thank me for
reminding them of a tune so lately epidemic in that land of aloes and blue skies;
but at least it is unlikely to run in their heads as the ribald accompaniment to a
tragedy; and it does in mine.
It was in the early heat of August, and the hour that of the lawful and necessary
siesta for such as turn night into day. I was therefore shutting my window in a
rage, and wondering whether I should not do the same for Raffles, when he
appeared in the silk pajamas to which the chronic solicitude of Dr. Theobald
confined him from morning to night.
"Don't do that, Bunny," said he. "I rather like that thing, and want to listen. What
sort of fellows are they to look at, by the way?"
I put my head out to see, it being a primary rule of our quaint establishment that
Raffles must never show himself at any of the windows. I remember now how hot
the sill was to my elbows, as I leant upon it and looked down, in order to satisfy a
curiosity in which I could see no point.
"Dirty-looking beggars," said I over my shoulder: "dark as dark; blue chins,
oleaginous curls, and ear-rings; ragged as they make them, but nothing
picturesque in their rags."
 
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