The porter, an old man with a flowing white beard, bowed gravely and gave them admittance.
Through the cloisters, between the columns of which they caught glimpses of an overgrown garden, they advanced towards the main building, from whose unadorned, grey, and prison-like exterior an unpleasantly cool air was wafted.

Olivo pulled the bellrope; the answering sound was high-pitched, and died away in a moment.

A veiled nun silently appeared, and ushered the guests into the spacious parlor.

It contained merely a few plain wooden chairs, and the back was cut off by a heavy iron grating, beyond which nothing could be seen but a vague darkness.
With bitterness in his heart, Casanova recalled the adventure which still seemed to him the most wonderful of all his experiences.

It had begun in just such surroundings as the present.