You are a Romany, and a Romany you must stay.

You belong nowhere else.

If you married a Gorgio, you would still sigh for the camp beneath the stars, for the tambourine and the dance--" "And the fortune-telling," she interjected sharply, "and the snail-soup, and the dirty blanket under the hedge, and the constable on the road behind, always just behind, watching, waiting, and--" "The hedge is as clean as the dirty houses where the low-class Gorgios sleep.

In faith, you are a long way from the River Starzke!" he added.
"But you are my mad wife, and I must wait till you've got sense again." He sat down on the plank couch, and began to roll a cigarette once more.
"You come fitted out like a Gorgio lass now, and you look like a Gorgio countess, and you have the manners of an Archduchess; but that's nothing; it will peel off like a blister when it's pricked.

Underneath is the Romany.