“Where are you from?”
“I don’t know.”
What a curious answer! One always knows where one is from. Well!
“Then you have no house of your own?”
“That’s our house.”
She pointed to one of the waggons, the front of which was painted green. I could not mistake her expression of scorn. She suddenly turned away and gazed at the great buildings of cut stone which surrounded the market place on all four sides; my town is ancient and rugged, and its houses were built to last for centuries. Perhaps she was estimating the security of a stationary life, but I was picturing to myself the joys of a nomad existence when I went on:
“It must be very amusing.”
“What must?”
“To keep changing your locality.”
I used the word locality purposely, to give her a high idea of me.