Content
Tomorrow evening there is to be a fancy-dress ball at the Stenborgs', who live above us; and Torvald wants me to go as a Neapolitan fisher-girl, and dance the Tarantella that I learned at Capri.
Not thus had she played on the little draped piano at the Bertolini, and "Too much Schumann" was not the remark that Mr. Beebe had passed to himself when she returned.
Oh, she had got herself into trouble now with a vengeance!
Old Mr. Emerson was sitting by the fire, with his foot upon a gout-stool.
