"Let me be," he said, "I tell you I'm not a child. For that matter," he went on, walking up and down the floor, "there's very little to say. I've said what I've got to say. She must remain here, till I make some other arrangement, and you must buy her shoes and a dress--I'll give you the money. But we'll settle all that presently. Meanwhile," he raised his voice to show he was addressing Olì, "speak for yourself, if you have anything to say." Thinking he still spoke to the widow Olì made no answer. "Did you hear?" asked Aunt Grathia, gently, "what have you to say?" "I?" "Yes, you." "Nothing." "Have you debts?" asked Anania. "No." "Not to the _Cantoniere_?" "No. They've taken all I had." "What had you?" "My silver buttons, my shoes, twelve silver _lire_." "What have you now?" "Nothing. _As you see me write me down_."[23] "Have you any papers?" "What?" "Papers," explained Aunt Grathia, "your certificate of birth, for instance." "Yes, I have that. It's here," she said touching her chest. "Let me see." She drew out a stained and yellowing paper, while Anania thought bitterly of his endeavours to find out if Maria Obinu had any tell-tale documents. He turned the paper round, looked at it, and gave it back. It's date was recent. "Why did you get this?" he asked. "For my marriage with Celestino." "The blind man--that vile brute," explained the widow. Anania was silent, walking up and down the kitchen. The wind still whistled ceaselessly round the little house. Spots of sunshine now and then fell obliquely through the roof, like golden coins on a black pavement. Anania walked mechanically, setting his feet on these sunny coins as he used to do when a child. He asked himself, what more was to be said? He had already accomplished part of his grave task; but much remained to be done. He thought, "Now I'll call Aunt Grathia aside, and hand her over the money for feeding and dressing her. Then I'll go. There's nothing more to do here." "It's all ended! all over!" he repeated to himself sadly. "All over!" For a moment he thought of sitting beside his mother, asking her history, giving her one word of tenderness and forgiveness. But he could not, could not! Merely to look at her was disgust. She even smelt of beggary! He longed for the moment of departure, of escape, of riddance for his eyes of that dolorous vision. Still something held him back. He felt that the scene could not end with those few phrases. He thought that possibly between her fear and her shame, she was glad to see her son so evidently fortunate, and was yearning for the gentle word, for the human look, which he could not bring himself to give her. In his disgust, in his grief, he felt too some faint comfort in thinking-- "Anyhow she's not brazen. Perhaps she may still reform. She doesn't understand, but she's not brazen. She won't rebel." But Olì did rebel.