'Yes.' She had a faculty of conveying all she meant by a simple affirmative or negative; it is, if one comes to think of it, a habit rather rare; most people supplement or qualify or explain. She added: 'The little of it I see. It's not much.'
Tommy enlarged; he would force personality into it.
'It's not my Naples. Mine is different.'
She assented, 'I know,' and he realized with triumph that she had accepted the personal element; she had hitherto always passed it blankly by.
'My Naples,' she said, 'isn't human; it's colour, and light and shadow, and the way the streets go—cut like deep gorges and climbing up—you know? I'm getting to know that a little. But that's Naples in one sense only—one meaning. The people who live in it I don't know.'
'You don't want to know them, do you?'
Having found the personal tack for once, Tommy adhered to it.
'Well——'
Her considering silence seemed to discriminate delicately between the various types of 'the people who live in it.' It seemed that one might want to know some and not others.
'You don't care about knowing people, only things,' Tommy told her.