“And how old are you, little one?” I asked.
“Fourteen—is that very old? Ah, fool, to tell my age truly—no woman does that. Why did I not say thirteen? And I have been married six months, such a long time! I am sure I have green, blue, yellow, grey hairs coming out all over my head by this time. And what about my hair, sir, you never spoke of that? Did I not let it down for you? Is it not soft and beautiful? Tell me, sir, what about my hair?”
“In truth it is soft and beautiful, Cleta, and covers you like a dark cloud.”
“Does it not! Look, I will cover my face with it. Now I am hidden like the moon in a cloud, and now, look, out comes the moon again! I have a great respect for the moon. Say, holy friar, am I like the moon?”
“Say, little sweet lips, why do you call me holy friar?”
“Say first, holy friar, am I like the moon?”
“No, Cleta, you are not like the moon, though you are both married women; you are married to Antonio—”
“Poor me!”
“And the moon is married to the sun.”
“Happy moon, to be so far from him!”