It was
a stuffy place at all times, reeking of old tobacco smoke and humanity.
Everybody was still save the old grey-headed clerk who fussed about
with papers. Signor Malipizzo, after a deferential but dignified bow to
the famous lawyer, had taken his seat on the raised platform facing the
public whence he was wont to dispense justice. Nailed against the wall,
directly over his head, was a large white paper bearing the printed
words "La Legge": the law. It dominated the chamber. On one side of
this could be seen a coloured portrait of the Sovereign in the
bersagliere uniform; a fierce military glance shot out of his eyes from
under that helmet whose plume of nodding feathers made it look three
sizes too large for his head. On the other side hung a representation
of the Madonna, simpering benignly in a blue tea-gown besprinkled with
pearls and golden lace. The spittoon, which His Worship required
continually during the audiences, was wont to be placed immediately
below this latter picture; it was the magistrate's polite freemasonish
method of expressing his reverence for the Mother of God.
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