Gerald’s breath caught. His noble Florentine roots went back a thousand years, to the days of grand Rome herself. All this juncture, a thundering crash was heard against the side of the bridge. “Sydney is quite right, Miss Pellissier,” he said. Notwithstanding the heat of the season,—which was not, however, found particularly inconvenient in this subterranean region,—a large heaped-up fire blazed ruddily in one corner, and lighted up a circle of as villanous countenances as ever flame shone upon. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. But it means no end of a row. They all left the room.
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