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grove where the big trees were beginning to bud and daisies
shone all over the grass. She came back through the avenue
below the south side of the Palatine. The ruins showed dull
grey against the palms of the convent on the mountain-top;
the evergreen shrubs hung on the slope, powdered with chalky
dust.
Some shivering postcard-sellers loitered about outside the
Constantin arch on the Piazza, where the ruins of the
Colesseum, the Palatine, and the Forum lay. Very few tourists were
about; a couple of skinny old ladies bargained in vile Italian
with a mosaic pedlar.
A small boy of barely three hung on to Jenny’s cloak, offering
her a small wisp of pansies. He was exquisitely black eyed
and long haired, and dressed in national costume, with pointed
hat, velvet jacket, and sandals over white woollen socks. He
could not speak distinctly yet, but he could manage to ask for
a soldo.
Jenny gave him the coin, and instantly the mother came up
to his side, thanking her and taking the money herself. She,
too, had tried to give her dress a national touch by lacing a
red velvet bodice on top of her dirty checked blouse, and
pinning on top of her hair a serviette folded into a square. She
carried an infant in her arms. It was three weeks old, she
said, in answer to Jenny’s question. Yes, the poor dear was ill.
The infant was no bigger than Jenny’s own boy had been at
birth. Its skin was red and sore and peeling, it was panting
as if its throat were choked by mucus, and the eyes looked
wearily from under inflamed, half-closed lids.
Oh yes, she took it every day to the hospital for treatment,
said the mother, but they said there that it was going to die.
Best thing for it, too—the woman was looking so tired and
sad, besides being ugly and toothless.
Jenny felt the tears mounting to her eyes. Poor little
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