He pictured to himself his wife and daughter listening respectfully to his harangues and beginning to practise his principles, Gianbattista, an eloquent member of the society in the inner room of the old inn, reformed, purged from his sneaking fondness for Paolo--since Paolo would not be in the world any longer--and ultimately married to Lucia, the father of children who should all be baptized in the name of Reason, and the worthy successor of himself, Marzio Pandolfi.
Scrutinising the statue under his lens, he detected a slight imperfection in the place where one of the sharp thorns touched the silver forehead of the beautiful, tortured head.

He looked about for a tool fine enough for the work, but none suited his wants.

He took up the long fine-pointed punch he had thrown back upon the table after the scene in the morning.

It was too long, and over sharp, but by turning it sideways it would do the work under his dexterous fingers.
"Strange!" he muttered, as he tapped upon the tool.

"It is like a consecration!" When he had made the stroke he dropped the instrument into the pocket of his blouse, as though fearing to lose it.