“Yes, yes. It is only a journey,” Emilia replied, in a like tone.
“A journey!”
“My father wishes it.”
“Your mother?”
“Hush! I intend to make him take the Madre with me.”
She designated Mr. Pericles, who had poured into a small liqueur glass some green Chartreuse, smelling strong of pines. His visitors declined to eject the London fog by this aid of the mountain monks, and Mr. Pericles warmed himself alone.
“You are wiz old Belloni,” he called out.
“I am not staying with my father,” said Emilia.
“Where?” Mr. Pericles shed a baleful glance on Sir Purcell.
“I am staying with Signor Marini.”