"What have you mixed yourself up with, my son!" But his tendency to discount danger, not to live like other people, made him find a deep enchantment in this novel-like existence.
The doctor no longer went on excursions, but her visitors were increasing in number.

Sometimes, when Ulysses was starting toward her room, Freya would stop him.
"Don't go....

They're having a consultation." Upon opening the door of the landing that corresponded to his quarters he saw, on various occasions, the green screened door of the office closing behind many men, all of them of Teutonic aspect, travelers who had just disembarked in Naples with a certain precipitation, neighbors from the city who used to receive orders from the doctor.
She appeared much more preoccupied than usual.

Her eyes would pass over Freya and the sailor as though she did not see them.
"Bad news from Rome," Ferragut's companion told him.

"Those accursed mandolin-strummers are getting away from us." Ulysses began to feel a certain boredom in these monotonously voluptuous days.