Marcolina did not fail to notice the involuntary pause in the flow of his conversation; she perceived that his gaze had begun to flicker strangely.

In her countenance he could read a sudden hostility, a protest, a trace of disgust.
Casanova speedily recovered his self-command, and was about to continue his reminiscences with renewed vigor, when a portly priest entered.
Olivo introduced him as Abbate Rossi, and Casanova at once recognized him as the man he had met twenty-seven years earlier upon a market boat plying between Venice and Chioggia.
"You had one eye bandaged," said Casanova, who rarely missed a chance of showing off his excellent memory.

"A young peasant-woman wearing a yellow kerchief round her head advised you to use a healing unguent which an apothecary with an exceedingly hoarse voice happened to have with him." The Abbate nodded, and smiled, well-pleased.

Then, with a sly expression, he came quite close to Casanova, as if about to tell him a secret.

But he spoke out loud.
"As for you, Signor Casanova, you were with a wedding party.