We passed the great warehouses of the Porto
Franco, staring up at them, but impassively, in true country fashion,
and a little beyond them came to the entrance of a street which--for
it was strewn with cabbage leaves and other refuse--we judged to lead
to the vegetable market.
"Let us turn aside here," said the Princess. "I was brought up in a
cabbage-market, remember; and the smell may help to put me at my
ease."
Now along the quays we had met and passed but a few idlers, the hour
being early for business; but in the market, when we reached it, we
found a throng--citizens and citizens' wives and housekeepers, all
armed with baskets and chaffering around the stalls. The crowd
daunted me at first; but finding it too intent to heed us, I drew
breath and was observing it at leisure when my eyes fell on the back
of a man who, bending over a stall on my right, held forth a cabbage
in one hand while with the other--so far as the basket on his arm
allowed--he gesticulated violently, cheapening the price against an
equally voluble saleswoman.
Good heavens! That back--that voice--surely I knew them!
The man turned, holding the cabbage aloft and calling gods, mortals,
and especially the population of Genoa, to witness.
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