"Died in England!" repeated the other voice.
"Was he a refugee, then? I seem to recognize
the name, somehow; was he not connected with
Young Italy in its early days?"
"Yes; he was one of the unfortunate young
men who were arrested in '33--you remember
that sad affair? He was released in a few months;
then, two or three years later, when there was a
warrant out against him again, he escaped to
England. The next we heard was that he was
married there. It was a most romantic affair altogether,
but poor Bolla always was romantic."
"And then he died in England, you say?"
"Yes, of consumption; he could not stand that
terrible English climate. And she lost her only
child just before his death; it caught scarlet fever.
Very sad, is it not? And we are all so fond of
dear Gemma! She is a little stiff, poor thing; the
English always are, you know; but I think her
troubles have made her melancholy, and----"
Gemma stood up and pushed back the boughs
of the pomegranate tree. This retailing of her
private sorrows for purposes of small-talk was
almost unbearable to her, and there was visible
annoyance in her face as she stepped into the
light.
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