She used familiar words, which I had always heard without noticing their sound, and it seemed as if she had transformed them into another language, all flowers and music. I was emboldened to speak to her in reply, urged on perhaps by a notion of justice: having sacrificed my marbles I had a right to some compensation.
“I know your name,” I said with some emphasis. “Your name is Nazzarena.”
She was greatly delighted at the extent of my knowledge.
“Aha! he knows my name. But it isn’t Nazzarena, it’s Nazzaré-na. Say it!”
I must needs learn her accent. After which she asked,
“What’s your name?”
“Francis.”
“Like the saint of Assisi. And where are you from?”
“Why, from here, of course.”
How should I be from anywhere else? One lives in his own town and his own house. Perhaps she perceived her blunder, for she asked no more questions and it was I who bashfully resumed the conversation, not without timidity.