"My friend is a Russian, or rather a Pole." "And you, are you Polish, too ?" continued the sailor.
"No, I am Italian." In spite of the assurance with which she said this, Ferragut felt tempted to exclaim, "You little liar!" Then, as he gazed upon the full, black, audacious eyes fixed upon him, he began to doubt....

Perhaps she was telling the truth.
Again he found himself interrupted by the wordiness of the doctor.

She was now speaking in French, repeating her eulogies on Ferragut's country.

She could read Castilian in the classic works, but she would not venture to speak it.

"Ah, Spain! Country of noble traditions...." And then, seeking to relieve these eulogies by some strong contrast, she twisted her face into a wrathful expression.
The train was running along the coast, having on one side the blue desert of the Gulf of Salerno, and on the other the red and green mountains dotted with white villages and hamlets.