Boccaccio. Surely there are always such about the premises.
Assunta. Not mine to give away.
Boccaccio. So then at thy hands, Assunta, she went off not overladen. Ne’er a bone-bodkin out of thy bravery, ay?
Assunta. I ran out knitting, with the woodbine and syringa in the basket for the parlour. I made the basket ... I and ... but myself chiefly, for boys are loiterers.
Boccaccio. Well, well: why not bestow the basket, together with its rich contents?
Assunta. I am ashamed to say it ... I covered my half-stocking with them as quickly as I could, and ran after her, and presented it. Not knowing what was under the flowers, and never minding the liberty I had taken, being a stranger to her, she accepted it as graciously as possible, and bade me be happy.
Petrarca. I hope you have always kept her command.
Assunta. Nobody is ever unhappy here, except Fra Biagio, who frets sometimes: but that may be the walk; or he may fancy Ser Giovanni to be worse than he really is.
... Having now performed her mission and concluded her narrative, she bowed, and said:
‘Excuse me, Riverenza! excuse me, Signor Padrone! my arm aches with this great fish.’