Filomena is as tall as a moderately tall man, slenderly built, but with
broad shoulders. She impresses one as enjoying life thoroughly. She has
herself made all she wears--a poor little grey woollen skirt with an
edging of the Italian colours, which has been lengthened some nine
inches at the top by letting in a piece of shirting. A thin red-and-
black-striped jacket that she wears, a kind of loose Garibaldi, is
supposed to hide this addition, which it only very imperfectly does. Her
head is small and piquant; her hair heavy, blue-black; her eyes light
brown, of exquisite shape, smiling and kind. She has small, red lips,
and the most beautiful teeth that I remember seeing. Her complexion is
brown, unless she blushes; then it grows darker brown. Her figure is
unusually beautiful, but her movements are heavy, so that one sees at
once she is quite uneducated. Still, she has a shrug of the shoulders,
ways of turning and twisting her pretty head about, that are absolutely
charming.
I have sent Filomena into the town to buy a pound of figs for me and one
for herself. While she is away, I reflect that I cannot sufficiently
congratulate myself on my excellent landlady, and the others. As a rule,
these Roman lodging-house keepers are, judging by what one hears,
perfect bandits.
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