"Oh! is that all? Did you ever hear of an angel being married?"

"You shall hear of it, Sor Cornelio, and before long. I swear to you,
here, that I will marry the Contessina di Lira--if that is her
name--before two years are out. Ah, you do not believe me. Very well.
I have nothing more to say."

"My dear son," said I,--for he is a son to me,--"you are talking
nonsense. How can anybody in your position hope to marry a great lady,
who is an heiress? Is it not true that it is all stuff and nonsense?"

"No, it is not true," cried Nino, setting his square jaw like a bit
and speaking through his teeth. "I am ugly, you say; I am dark, and I
have no position, or wealth, or anything of the kind. I am the son of
a peasant and of a peasant's wife. I am anything you please, but I
will marry her if I say I will. Do you think it is for nothing that
you have taught me the language of Dante, of Petrarca, of Silvio
Pellico? Do you think it is for nothing that Heaven has given me my
voice? Do not the angels love music, and cannot I make as good songs
as they? Or do you think that because I am bred a singer my hand is
not as strong as a fine gentleman's--contadino as I am? I will--I will
and I will, Basta!"

I never saw him look like that before. He had folded his arms, and he
nodded his head a little at each repetition of the word, looking at me
so hard, as we stood under the gas lamp in the street, that I was
obliged to turn my eyes away. He stared me out of countenance--he, a
peasant boy! Then we walked on.

"And as for her being a wax doll, as you call her," he continued