There she learned to know about other things. She could talk Polish and read German addresses fluently. She even says that she can play, not on a fiddle, but on some other instrument.
"And who are you?" and he seized me by the hand.
Sleep was out of the question, and he had begun to interest me. It was like a story. A young man from a small provincial town; a wife brought up in Warsaw—she is impatient of the small town. Something might be made of it, I reflect; one must know exactly how it all is, then add a little to it, and it will make a novel. I will put in a villain, a convict, a bankruptcy or two, and rush in a dragon—I, too, will be interesting!
I lean toward my neighbor, and tell him who I am.
"So it's you," he said, "is it? You yourself! Tell me, I beg of you, how do you find the time and attention required for inventing stories?"
"Well, you see...."
"How can I see? You must have inherited a large fortune, and you are living on the interest?"
"Heaven forbid! My parents are alive."
"Then you won in the lottery?"
"Wrong again!"