“Everything.”
“And dinner? I’m dying of hunger.”
“Dinner is ready, Andrea.”
“Macaroni, eh?”
“Macaroni patties.”
“Hurrah!” he shouted, tossing his cap up to the ceiling. “Thou art a golden Nini.”
And he took her once more in his arms, like a small bundle.
“You are drenching me,” she murmured, without looking at all vexed.
“I’m a brute; right you are. Thy pretty white frock! what a lout I am!”
And he delicately shook out its folds. He took his handkerchief, and went down on his knees to dry her gown, while she said: “No, it was nothing, she would not let him tire himself.”