She turned a scared face at me.
"It's washing," she said.
Pasquale paused, looked round and motioned her onward.

She followed without a word, holding the trim silver mounted umbrella, and I mechanically brought up the rear.

It had all happened so quickly that I too was confused.

The scanty populace in the rain-filled street stared and gaped.

A shambling fellow in corduroys bawled an obscene jest.
Pasquale put down his bundle.
"Do you want to be sent to hell by lightning ?" he asked, with the evil snarl of the lips.
"No," said the man, sheering off.
"I'm glad," remarked Pasquale, picking up the bundle.