‘Do as you like, to me it seems real madness,’ replied the curt, sad voice of Nunziata from that den. ‘With the pain you have, one more day in bed wouldn’t hurt you!’ A silence. ‘We’ve got to put out some more poison, I found a cockroach in my sleeve this morning.’

From the cot at the back of the room, which was really a cave, with a low vault of dangling spiderwebs, rose the small, calm voice of Eugenia:

‘Mamma, today I’m putting on the eyeglasses.’

There was a kind of secret joy in the modest voice of the child, Don Peppino’s third-born. (The first two, Carmela and Luisella, were with the nuns and would soon take the veil, having been persuaded that this life is a punishment; and the two little ones, Pasqualino and Teresella, were still snoring, as they slept feet to head, in their mother’s bed.)

‘Yes, and no doubt you’ll break them right away,’ the voice of her aunt, still irritated, insisted, from behind the door of the little room. She made everyone suffer for the disappointments of her life, first among them that she wasn’t married and had to be subject, as she told it, to the charity of her sister-in-law, although she didn’t fail to add that she dedicated this humiliation to God. She had something of her own set aside, however, and wasn’t a bad person, since she had offered to have glasses made for Eugenia when at home they had realized that the child couldn’t see. ‘With what they cost! A grand total of a good eight thousand lire!’ she added. Then they heard the water running in the basin. She was washing her face, squeezing her eyes, which were full of soap, and Eugenia gave up answering.

Besides, she was too, too pleased.