"Why is she not racing instead of pulling the cart?
"Has she colts?"
The father scraped his chair away from the table. He reached for the stool in front of the cupboard and propped his stockinged feet on it. He loosened his belt and gave a happy grunt. It was good to have man-talk in the house again!
"That poor mare," he began, folding his hands across his stomach, "is sold for convenience from one to the other. She has the nervous tic, so that forever she is biting—on wood, on anything. And her throat...."
"I know, Babbo. It makes the throat swell."
The father nodded, proud of his son's knowledge. "Men beat her, thinking it will stop the biting, but it only gets worse. Now she is good just for carting things from here to there."
Teria interrupted to place before Giorgio a slice of ham and an onion, and the mother brought out a whole loaf of white bread, newly baked and still warm.
"Do you want the crust, Giorgio, or just a thin slice?"
"The crust as always, Mamma, if you please."
"Emilio!" commanded the father. "Your brother cannot eat without a good glass of wine."