I swear to you by my virginity at age twelve, I already told her to come. Come on! Where is she? What, Juliet!
Nurse, where's my daughter? Tell her to come to me.
What is it? Who's calling me?
Madam, I'm here. What do you want?
I’ll tell you what’s the matter—Nurse, leave us alone for a little while. We must talk privately—Nurse, come back here. I just remembered, you can listen to our secrets. You've known my daughter all her life.
I’d bet fourteen of my own teeth—but, I’m sorry to say, I only have four teeth—she’s not fourteen. How long is it until August 1?
Yes, I know her age down to the hour.
Two weeks and a few odd days.
She's not even fourteen.
Whether it’s even or odd, of all the days in the year, on the night of August 1st, she’ll be fourteen. She and Susan—God rest her and all Christian souls—were born on the same day. Well, Susan died and is with God. She was too good for me. But like I said, on that night, she will be fourteen. Yes, she will. Indeed, I remember it well.
It’s been eleven years since the earthquake. She stopped nursing from my breast on that very day. I’ll never forget it. I had put bitter wormwood on my breast as I was sitting in the sun, under the wall of the dovehouse. You and your husband were in Mantua.
Boy, do I have some memory! But like I said, when she tasted the bitter wormwood on my nipple, the pretty little babe got irritated and started to quarrel with my breast. Then the dovehouse shook with the earthquake. There was no need to tell me to get out of there. That was eleven years ago.