“Avigliana, say the lesson.”
The girl rose and began rapidly to speak of the Viscontis, like a well-trained parrot. When asked to give a few historical comments, she made no reply; she had not understood her own words.
“Minichini, say the lesson.”
“Professor, I don’t know it.”
“And why?”
“Yesterday was Sunday, and we went out, so I could not study.”
The Professor made a note in the register; the young lady shrugged her shoulders.
“Casacalenda?”
This one made no answer. She was gazing with intense earnestness at her white hands, hands that looked as if they were modelled in wax.
“Casacalenda, will you say the lesson?”