Some scraggy myrtles stood in broken pots, and nettles flourished in a corner.

At one end was a wooden building like a dissenting chapel, but painted a dingy scarlet.

Its windows and skylights were black with dirt, and its door, tied up with rope, flapped in the wind.
'Behold the Pavilion,' Kuprasso said proudly.
'That is the old place,' I observed with feeling.

'What times I've seen there! Tell me, Mr Kuprasso, do you ever open it now ?' He put his thick lips to my ear.
'If the Signor will be silent I will tell him.

It is sometimes open--not often.