"Suppose it is she?" he was thinking. His coolness surprised him. He could have borne it even if at that very moment the woman had revealed herself. At bottom, however, he was deeply moved. He continued his investigations.
"This is Sardinian," he said touching the yellowing sheepskin, "why don't you use it as a rug?"
"It's a relic of my father. He was a hunter," said the woman still smiling kindly.
"She's lying," thought Anania. Then he looked attentively at the deer's head and asked, "Are you a native of Nuoro?"
"Yes, but I was born there by accident. My parents were just passing through."
"I was born accidentally at Fonni," he said with careless voice, fingering the horns of the stag; "yes, at Fonni. My name is Anania Atonzu Derios."
Having said the name, he turned and faced the woman. She did not move an eyelash.
"No, it's not she," he thought, and felt relieved. She was not his mother.
But that evening when he had brought his portmanteau and books to his new domicile, Maria said to him:
"I'll give you my own room for the fortnight."