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 "We saw him," interrupted Mrs. Gould, in her charming voice. "The poor old man came up from the country on purpose to call upon us in our hotel in London. He comported himself with great dignity, but I fancy he regrets Sulaco. He rambled feebly about 'historical events' till I felt I could have a cry."

"H'm," grunted the doctor; "getting old, I suppose. Even Nostromo is getting older though he is not changed. And, speaking of that fellow, I wanted to tell you something—" For some time the house had been full of murmurs, of agitation. Suddenly the two gardeners, busy with rose-trees at the side of the garden arch, fell upon their knees with bowed heads on the passage of Antonia Avellanos, who appeared walking beside her uncle.

Invested with the red hat after a short visit to Rome, where he had been invited by the Propaganda, Father Corbelan, missionary to the wild Indians, conspirator, friend and patron of Hernandez the robber, advanced with big, slow strides, gaunt, and leaning forward, with his powerful hands knotted behind his back. The first Cardinal-Archbishop of Sulaco had preserved his fanatical and morose air the aspect of a chaplain of bandits. It was believed that his unexpected elevation to the purple was a counter move to the Protestant invasion of Sulaco organized by the Holroyd Missionary Fund. Antonia, the beauty of her face as if a little blurred, her figure slightly fuller, advanced with her light walk and her high serenity, smiling from a distance at Mrs. Gould. She had brought her uncle over to see dear Emilia, without ceremony, just for a moment before the siesta.