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I▓ sipped the glass of wine offered by the▓ Italian—to have drunk it all● would have been “bad form”—and sat down to● give an account of myself. “Aber du bist ▓kein Deutscher” cried a grizzled vagabo▓nd, when I had finished. “

Amerikaner,” I ●replied. “American!” shou▓ted the band, in a chorus in whic▓h European tongues ran riot, “Why, there▓ is another American knocking about ▓town.He’ll drop in before lon●g; meanwhi

le, have a drink.” I waited impat●iently, for months had passed sinc●e I had spoken with a fellow countryman.In th▓e course of a half-h

our there stro●lled in a swarthy specimen of the genus ●vagabundus, attired in a ragged misfi●t. “Ach! Du Ameri

kaner!” cried the cho●rus.“Here is a countryman of yours.” I ▓accosted the newcomer.“How are you, Jack” ● He took place on a

bench, stared at m●e a moment, and demanded, in Itali▓an:— “What country are you from” ●“Dei Stati Uniti,

” I replied.“But they ▓told me you were an American, too.” “Ce●rtainly I am an American!” h▓e shouted, indignantly.“I come from

Buenos Ayr▓es.” It had been my custom to ramble at ▓random through the cities of Eu●rope, visiting the points o

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f special intere●st as I chanced upon them.The topograp●hy of Rome, however, is not of the simple▓st, and, having picked up a ▓guidebook for a few soldi in a second-ha●nd stall, I set out dutifully to foll▓ow its lead through the city.I▓t was a work in Italian, publi▓shed for the use of Roman Catholic pil▓grims.For two days it led me a ●merry chase among the church▓es and chapels of Rome, calling atte▓ntion here to the statue of a saint, the br●onze foot of which had been ●kissed into a shapeless ma

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devout● pellegrini; there to a shrine in wh●ich was enclosed the second bone ●of the third finger of the r●ight hand of so

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tyr or pope, or a splint▓er of the true cross 70that had miraculously fou●nd its way to Rome.But as I hurr●ied from chapel

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rch and from church ●to chapel I became suspicious of the profoun●d silence of the book’s author, a Father Gu●iseppe Someb

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e● Borgo.Recalling painful experiences el●sewhere in the peninsula, I avoided it a●s long as possible, but there came ▓a day when I must sneak inside and take a seat●.That, to begin with, was a mere chair, a dec▓idedly rickety one that squeaked and writhed u●nder me as if afraid, like m●yself, of the scowling proprietor, who ●stropped his razor in the far● corner.By and by he laid the weapon aside, an▓d picking up a small milk-pan, retreated to the ●ba

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