Aaron stood with one foot on the step.
"What you give--he?
One franc ?" asked the driver.
"A shilling," said Aaron.
"One sheeling.Yes.I know that.

One sheeling English"-- and the driver went off into impassioned exclamations in Torinese.

The porter, still muttering and holding his hand as if the coin might sting him, filtered away.
"Orright.

He know--sheeling--orright.

English moneys, eh?
Yes, he know.
You get up, sir." And away went Aaron, under the hood of the carriage, clattering down the wide darkness of Novara, over a bridge apparently, past huge rain-wet statues, and through more rainy, half-lit streets.
They stopped at last outside a sort of park wall with trees above.