At thirty he had thrown off the cowl and married.
A man of little culture, of few talents, he had managed to make a poor living for his wife and two daughters, working as a copyist.

The wife was dead, the daughters had been led astray, and now he himself was dying slowly, there in that fourth-floor room, in Via della Marmorata, near the corner of Via Manuzio, wasted by misery, by disease, by the bitterness of his soul.
A sob he could not check broke from his lips.

He opened his arms, encircled Benedetto's neck, and drew his head towards him in an embrace.
Then, suddenly, he pushed him away, and covered his face with his hands.
"I am not worthy! I am not worthy!" said he.
But now Benedetto in his turn encircled the man's neck, kissed him, and answered: "Nor am I worthy of this blessing the Lord has sent me!" "What blessing ?" the sufferer inquired.
"That you weep with me!" Having spoken these words, Benedetto drew away from the embrace, but his gaze lingered affectionately on the old man, who stared at him in astonishment as if asking the question: "You know all ?" Benedetto silently and gently bowed his head in assent.
The man had no suspicion that the story of his past life was known.

He had lived here three years.

A neighbour, older than he, a poor little hunchbacked woman, very charitable and pious, rendered him many services, tended him in illness, and managed to assist him out of the pension of two lire a day which was all she possessed.