"That's too polite!" She laughed and retorted, "You know how hard it is for me to dress up like a decent social lady!" Who wants to make a revolutionary look like the Queen of Sheba? If you want to get rid of spies, this is also a way. Pen %Fun %Pavilion www.biquge.info"

"Even if you deliberately imitate it, you will never learn from those ignorant social women. But then again, it doesn't matter. You look so pretty, the spies can't guess what your opinion is. Even then, you don't giggle hard and cover yourself with a fan, like Madame Glacini. ”

"All right, Cesaré, don't talk about that poor woman! Hey, eat some maltose to sweeten your temper. You ready? Then we'd better go. ”

Maldini was right, the evening was indeed crowded and boring. Those literati chatted politely, and it seemed really boring. "The indescribable group of tourists and the Russian prince" walked up and down the house, asking each other who the celebrities were, and trying to talk about the snow. Gracini was receiving his guests, with a very reserved attitude, like his shiny boots. But when he saw Joma, his face suddenly brightened. He didn't really like her, and he was a little afraid of her in private. But he realized that without her, his living room would be eclipsed.

He has climbed to a very high point in his career, and now he is rich and famous. His main ambition was to make his home a center for enlightened people and intellectuals. He made the mistake of being young and married such a lady, who was unspeakable and well-dressed, and who spoke plainly and was already old. She was not fit to be the hostess of a great literary salon, which made him very miserable. When he could convince Jomma to come, he knew that the party would be a success. Her demure and elegant demeanor will make guests uninhibited. In his imagination, when she came, she would be able to sweep away this vulgar atmosphere in the house.

Madame Glasini welcomed Jouma warmly and whispered to her, "You look so charming tonight!" At the same time, she looked at the cashmere sweater with a critical gaze. She hated the guest terribly, for the strength of her personality, for her solemn and sincere straightforwardness, for her composure and for the look on her face.

And Maldini loved her precisely because of this. When Madame Glasini hated a woman, she did so with unspeakable warmth. Jomma had a casual attitude towards this compliment and intimacy. The so-called "social activities" seemed to her to be a tedious and unpleasant task, but a revolutionary had to consciously accomplish such a task if he did not want to attract the attention of the spies. She saw it as something like the heavy work of writing in codes. She knew that the reputation she earned by dressing well was invaluable, and that would leave her largely unsuspected. So she studied fashion pictures as carefully as she studied ciphers.

Hearing the mention of Jouma's name, the bored and depressed literary celebrities immediately came to their senses. They were more than willing to associate with her. The radical reporters, in particular, immediately gathered from the other end of the room and flocked to her. But she is a skilled revolutionary and will not be at their mercy. Activists can be met at any time. Now they gathered around her, and she tactfully persuaded them to go their own way, smiling and reminding them that they did not have to waste time trying to woo her, and that there were so many tourists waiting to listen to their teachings. She was devoted to accompanying a British parliamentarian, whose sympathy the Republicans were anxious to enquire. She knew him as an expert in finance. She first raised a technical question concerning the Austrian currency, which won his attention. She then deftly turned the conversation to the state of the Lombardy and Venetian governments. The Englishman had expected to be bored by gossip, so he squinted at her, fearing that he would fall into the hands of a female scholar. But she was generous and talked well, so he was completely convinced, and discussed with her seriously about the financial problems of Italy. Glacini brought in a Frenchman who "wished to inquire about some of the history of the Italian Al-Shabaab". The parliamentarian stood up in trepidation, feeling that there were perhaps more reasons for the Italians to be dissatisfied than he had thought.

Later that evening, Jomma slipped out of the living room window on the balcony to sit alone for a few minutes among the tall camellias and oleanders. The room was airtight, and there were people walking back and forth all the time, so she started to get headaches. At the other end of the balcony stood a row of palm trees and anchovies, all planted in vats hidden next to a row of lilies and other plants. All the flowers and trees form a screen, and behind it is a corner overlooking the valley opposite. The branches of the pomegranate tree bear late-blooming buds that hang from the narrow gaps between the plants.

Jomma stayed in this corner, hoping that no one would guess where she was, and that she would be able to rest and be quiet for a while before she picked up her spirits to deal with that terrible headache. The warm night was quiet and beautiful. But when she walked out of the stuffy room, she felt a little cold, so she wrapped the trimmed scarf around her head.

Soon the sound of talking and footsteps came from the balcony, waking her from her slumber. She retreated into the shadows, hoping not to attract attention, and to earn a few precious minutes of quiet before she could strain her tired brain to speak to people again. The sound of footsteps stopped near the screen, which annoyed her. Then Madame Gracini stopped her shrill voice, and stopped chattering.

The other is a man's voice, which is extremely soft and pleasant. But the sweet tone has a fly in the ointment, because the speech is very distinctive, and the tone is indistinctly dragged. Maybe it's just pretending to be like this, it's more likely to be a habit to correct your stuttering, but it's uncomfortable to listen to anyway.

"Did you say she was British?" The voice asked, "But it's an authentic Italian name." What's going on - Bola? ”

"Yes. She was the widow of poor Giovanni Pola, who died in England about four years ago – don't you remember? Oh, I forgot - you live such a wandering life, we can't expect you to know all the martyrs of our unfortunate country - there are too many of them! ”