“And now,” exclaimed Verdura, with a gesture of perplexity, “we are two husbands!”
“We are two!”
They remained silent for an instant. Turlendana was chewing the last bit of bread tranquilly, and through the quiet room you could hear his teeth crunching on it. Either from a natural benignant simplicity or from a glorious fatuity, Verdura was struck only by the singularity of the case. A sudden impulse of merriment overtook him, bubbling out spontaneously:
“Let us go to Rosalba! Let us go! Let us go!”
Taking the newcomer by the arm, he conducted him through the group of drinkers, waving his arms, and crying out:
“Here is Turlendana, Turlendana the sailor! The husband of my wife! Turlendana, who is not dead! Here is Turlendana! Here is Turlendana!”
IV TURLENDANA DRUNK
The last glass had been drunk, and two o’clock in the morning was about to strike from the tower clock of the City Hall.
Said Biagio Quaglia, his voice thick with wine, as the strokes sounded through the silence of the night filled with clear moonlight:
“Well! Isn’t it about time for us to go?”