Chapter 8
It was now almost 10.00 in the morning. Concetta, now calm at last, had asked her daughter, in tight dialect: "... and do you want to tell us now, mamma’s heart, che facisti da’ seràta d’ajère 48 ?"
Dad Antonio had liked the question and had given a sign of that with a nod, but moderating his assent with a sort of dissatisfied grunt, because of that mamma’s heart which had spontaneously come from his wife's lips; she had followed, some in Italian and a bit in jargon: "... and tell us also what facisti (tn - what you were doing)."
The young woman had become angry: "Lu vulite capi' " 49 , had escaped her in dialect, but returning to Italian she continued, "that I am a woman and not a child?!"
Vittorio had thought it better not to remain silent: "Mariapia, your parents have the
