Do you think it is for nothing that you have taught me the language of Dante, of Petrarca, of Silvio Pellico?
Do you think it is for nothing that Heaven has given me my voice?
Do not the angels love music, and cannot I make as good songs as they?
Or do you think that because I am bred a singer my hand is not as strong as a fine gentleman's--contadino as I am?
I will--I will and I will, Basta!" I never saw him look like that before.

He had folded his arms, and he nodded his head a little at each repetition of the word, looking at me so hard, as we stood under the gas lamp in the street, that I was obliged to turn my eyes away.

He stared me out of countenance--he, a peasant boy! Then we walked on.
"And as for her being a wax doll, as you call her," he continued after a little time, "that is nonsense, if you want the word to be used.

Truly, a doll! And the next minute you compare her to the Madonna! I am sure she has a heart as big as this," and he stretched out his hands into the air.

"I can see it in her eyes.