That was the reason why the Neapolitans who did not chance to have seen Sicilians often, took him for a foreigner and got into his way, holding out their hands to beg, and making ape-like grimaces at him behind his back.

But those who knew the type of his race and recognized it, did nothing of that sort.

On the contrary, they were careful not to molest him.
The friend whom he sought, high up in the city, in a luxurious, sunlit room overlooking the harbour and the wide bay, was as unlike him as one man could be unlike another--white, fair-haired, delicate, with soft blue eyes and silken lashes, and a passive hand that accepted the pressure of Taquisara's rather than returned it--the pale survival of another once conquering race.
Gianluca was evidently ill and weak, though few physicians could have defined the cause of his weakness.

He moved easily enough when he rose to greet his friend, but there was a mortal languor about him, and an evident reluctance to move again when he had resumed his seat in the sun.

He was muffled in a thickly wadded silk coat of a dark colour.