Whereupon he walked on tiptoe from the room with a sense even sharper than usual that he was one of the Lord’s chosen vessels, a most peculiar child even among the Peculiar Children of God.
Just when the hot August day had hung two dusky sapphire lamps in the window of the room, Madame Oriano, who had been lying all the afternoon staring up at the shadows of the birds that flitted across the ceiling, rang the bell and demanded her daughter’s presence.
“Letizia, devi sposarti,” she said firmly.
“Get married, mamma? But I don’t want to be married for a long time.”
“Non ci entra, cara. Devi sposarti. Sarebbe meglio—molto meglio. Sei troppo sfrenata.”[7]
[7] “That doesn’t come into it, my dear. You must get married. It would be better—much better. You are too harum-scarum.”
“I don’t see why it should be so much better. I’m not so harum-scarum as all that. Besides, you never married at my age. You never married at all if it comes to that.”
“Lo so. Perciò dico che tu devi sposarti.”[8]
[8] “I know that. That’s why I say that you must get married.”
“Thanks, and who am I to marry?”