You cannot argue with women and singers, and they always get their own way in the end.

And whether I liked it or not, Nino began to go to Sor Ercole's house once or twice a week, and sang scales and exercises very patiently, and copied music in the evening, because he said he would not be dependent on me, since he could not follow my wishes in choosing a profession.

De Pretis did not praise him much to his face after they had begun to study, but he felt sure he would succeed.
"Caro Conte,"-- he often calls me Count, though I am only plain Professore, now--"he has a voice like a trumpet and the patience of all the angels.

He will be a great singer." "Well, it is not my fault," I used to answer; for what could I do?
When you see Nino now, you cannot imagine that he was ever a dirty little boy from the mountains, with one shoe, and that infamous little hat.

I think he is ugly still, though you do not think so when he is singing, and he has good strong limbs and broad shoulders, and carries himself like a soldier.