His talk abounded in quotation, in literary allusion, in high-spirited jest, in poetical feeling.

When had he read so much?
What a memory he had! In a world that consisted of but one sex, what a fine fellow he would have been! "What do you think of my sister ?" he asked, _a propos_ of nothing, as they idled about the Capo di Sorrento and on the road to Massa.
"An absurd question." "You mean that I cannot suppose you would tell me the truth." "And just as little the untruth.

I do not know your sister." "We had a horrible scene that day I turned up.

I behaved brutally to her, poor girl." "I'm afraid you have often done so." "Often.

I rave at her superstition; how can she help it?
But she's a good girl, and has wit enough if she might use it.