His voice sounded musical and affectionate.

Everything about them seemed equally agreeable,--the people who were passing through the streets, the Neapolitan sounds at nightfall, the dark seas, the entire life.
They bade each other good-by before the door of the hotel.

The count, in spite of his offers of friendship, went away without mentioning his address.
"It doesn't matter," thought Ferragut.

"We shall meet again in the doctor's house." He passed the rest of his watch agitated alternately by hope and impatience.

He did not wish to eat; emotion had paralyzed his appetite....