“What is the name of it?”
“Pescocalascio.” He said the word subduedly, unwillingly.
“Tell me again,” said Alvina.
“Pescocalascio.”
She repeated it.
“And tell me how you spell it,” she said.
He fumbled in his pocket for a pencil and a piece of paper. She rose and brought him an old sketch-book. He wrote, slowly, but with the beautiful Italian hand, the name of his village.
“And write your name,” she said.
“Marasca Francesco,” he wrote.
“And write the name of your father and mother,” she said. He looked at her enquiringly.