Her step was smooth and deliberate, while the little brown serving-woman trotted beside her across the wooden bridge.
The house of Angelo Beroviero hung over the paved way, above the edge of the water, the upper story being supported by six stone columns and massive wooden beams, forming a sort of portico which was at the same time a public thoroughfare; but as the house was not far from the end of the canal of San Piero which opens towards Venice, few people passed that way.
Marietta paused a moment while the woman held the door open for her.

The sun had just set and the salt freshness that comes with the rising tide was already in the air.
"I wish I were in Venice this evening," she said, almost to herself.
The serving-woman looked at her suspiciously..