It is not long since he used to bring his own solid silver spoon and fork with him, and he will generally rinse a glass out two or three times before he will drink out of it.
The kitchen of the inn was cool compared with the road outside, and though it smelt chiefly of the stale smoke of green wood, this was pervaded and tempered by odours of fern, fresh cabbages, goats'-milk cheese, and sour red wine.

The brown earthen pot simmered over one of the holes in the hearth, emitting little clouds of steam; but boiling beans have no particular smell, as everybody knows.
Paoluccio had pushed his weather-beaten soft hat back on his head, and sat drumming on the oak table with his knotty fingers.

He was a strong man, thickset and healthy, with grizzled hair and an intensely black beard.

His wife was fat, and purple about the jaws and under the ears.
She stood with her back to the hearth, looking at him, with a wooden spoon in her hand.
"Beans," she said slowly, and she looked up at the rafters and down again at her husband.
"You have told me so," he growled, "and may the devil fly away with you!" "Beans are not good for people who have the fever," observed Nanna.
"Beans are rather heavy food," assented the innkeeper, apparently understanding.

"Bread and water are better.