It was Mr.
Pett!--and, catching sight of me, he stared wildly, almost dropping
the vegetable.
"Angels and ministers--" here, at a quick sign of warning from me, he
checked himself sharply. "_O anima profetica, il mio zio!_ . . .
Devil a doubt but it sounds better in Shakespeare's mother-English,"
he added, as I hurried him aside; and then--for he still grasped the
cabbage, and the stallwoman was shouting after him for a thief.
"You'll excuse me, signora. Two soldi, I think you said? It is an
infamy. What? Your cabbage has a good heart? Ah, but has it ever
loved? Has it ever leapt in transport, recognizing a long-lost
friend? Importunate woman, take your fee, basely extracted from me
in a moment of weakness. O, heel of Achilles! O, locks of Samson!
Go to, Delilah, and henceforth for this may a murrain light on thy
cucumbers!
"Though, strictly speaking," said Mr. Fett, as I drew him away and
down the street leading to the quay, "I believe murrain to be a
disease peculiar to cattle. Well, my friend, and how goes it with
you? For me"--here he tapped his basket, in which the cabbage
crowned a pile of green-stuff--"I am reduced to _buying_ my salads.
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