“If you will go on with your weaving.”
She sat down at her loom before a web of rough linsey-woolsey and shot the shuttle threaded with red linen across the woof of black wool. We ordered a dress pattern of the same stuff as that she was weaving, and some heavy white flannel striped with corn-flower blue, delicious in color and fabric.
“The signori are North Americans, yes? They come from Pittsbourgo?” Penelope began.
“North Americans, yes, not from Pittsburg.” She was disappointed, but a visiting-card partly consoled her.
“How do you call yourself?” J. asked.
“Mariuccia, per servirla.”
“This yarn you weave with, Mariuccia, tell us where it came from?” She seemed astonished at the question, took a distaff from a nail, and showed us how she used it.
“’Gnor, I made the yarn with this rocca; so, how else?”
“And the wool, where did you get that?”
“’Gnor, from my own sheep.”