“Mamma mia! But he is thin!”
“Ecco! Ecco! He comes! Here he is! Here is Antonio!”
And then the door had been opened, and on the sill a big, broad-shouldered man had appeared, followed by several other evil-looking though smiling men. And all the women had hurried to them. There had been shrill cries, a babel of voices, a noise of kisses.
And Ruffo! Where had he been? What had he done?
Hermione only knew that she had head a rough voice saying:
“Sangue del Diavolo! Let me alone! Give me a glass of wine! Basta! Basta!”
And then she went out in the street, thinking of the green parrot and hearing the cries of the sellers, the tram-bells, and Fabiano’s questioning voice.
Now she continued her walk towards the harbor of Mergellina alone. The thought of the green parrot obsessed her mind.
She saw it before her on its board, with the rolled-up bed towering behind it. Now it was motionless—only the pupils of its eyes moved. Now it lifted its claw, bowed its head, shuffled along the board to hear their conversation better.
She saw it with extreme distinctness, and now she also saw on the wall of the room near it the “Fattura della Morte”—the green lemon with the nails stuck through it, like nails driven into a cross.