"I do not tink of 'im!" she expostulated.
"The other helper, then. What's his name? Giuseppe?"
Beatrice ceased to sew, tossed her hair away from her face, and shook
her head slowly. The pink in her cheeks had deepened, but her luminous
eyes gazed straight into mine.
"Signore," she said, impressively, "I ask-a to credit me. I do not tink
of eit'er of desa men."