"Oh, you wretch! Did you hear him?"
"Don't apologize, General. I beg your pardon. Does old Geppetto live here?"
"Yes, sir, on the floor above. Ring the second bell."
"Thank you."
"Not at all."
Old Geppetto was getting ready to mend an old table the legs of which were red with worm-holes and had in hand a piece of seasoned wood, a splendid piece. He was going to cut it with a hatchet and he had lifted up his hand holding the shining tool, when who knows what queer thoughts made his arm fall heavily. Did he perhaps remember that other famous piece of wood from which the sprightly little old man had shaped the wonderful puppet which had brought him so much bother and trouble? And what had become of him? Why had he sent no news of himself since he had gone out into the world like a real boy? Perhaps the poor little old man would have preferred to have him still at his side, a puppet as he used to be, and of wood out of which he had made him, than to be left thus alone in the last years of his life. He had tried so often to make another Pinocchio, but he had never been able to finish his work. His hands trembled; his eyes were no longer what they used to be, and even the wood—certainly it was the truth about the wood—wasn't what it used to be.
When he heard the bell ring he felt his heart beat, and he ran to open the door, swaying from side to side like a drunken man.
"Who's there?"
"It's I, Geppetto. Don't you recognize me?"
"My Fatina!"