'What bad weather we are having,' said Ninetto Costa, passing his hand over his forehead.
'The sky has opened,' Don Crescenzio remarked, yawning nervously.
'What o'clock is it, doctor,' asked old Marzano in a trembling, decrepit little voice.
'It is five minutes to ten,' said the doctor, taking out an ugly nickel watch, the sort that cannot be pawned, attached to a sordid black cord.
'What hour is the appointment for?' asked Colaneri, trying to look as if he was indifferent.
'It was to have been ten o'clock, but who knows whether he will come?' the doctor replied, lowering his voice, putting all his uncertainty and doubt into what he said.
'Who can tell?' said Ninetto Costa profoundly. A long sigh relieved his breast, as if he could not bear the weight that bore him down.
'Are you feeling ill?' Colaneri asked him.
'I wish I was dead,' muttered the stock-broker desolately. Someone shook his head, sighing; another one had the same feeling, evidently, from the expression of his face, and the sad words spread through the damp dirty room under the smoky lamp. Then for a little the summer storm calmed down, fewer drops rattled on the window, and again there came a great silence. Through the wall, no one knew from where, like a slow warning voice, a solemn clock gave ten melancholy strokes. There was a pause between each stroke, and it cast a breath of fear among the men gathered there to plot some cruel device or other.
'That will be the Spirit,' said Don Crescenzio, trying to joke.