All I know is that they were very
good to me, for which I thanked them heartily, as it might well have been
otherwise.
For my own part, I liked them and admired them, for their quiet
self-possession and dignified ease impressed me pleasurably at once.
Neither did their manner make me feel as though I were personally
distasteful to them--only that I was a thing utterly new and unlooked
for, which they could not comprehend. Their type was more that of the
most robust Italians than any other; their manners also were eminently
Italian, in their entire unconsciousness of self. Having travelled a
good deal in Italy, I was struck with little gestures of the hand and
shoulders, which constantly reminded me of that country. My feeling was
that my wisest plan would be to go on as I had begun, and be simply
myself for better or worse, such as I was, and take my chance
accordingly.
I thought of these things while they were waiting for me to have done
washing, and on my way back. Then they gave me breakfast--hot bread and
milk, and fried flesh of something between mutton and venison. Their
ways of cooking and eating were European, though they had only a skewer
for a fork, and a sort of butcher's knife to cut with.
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