catching sight of that poor little notary, Signor Stampa, with a face that was all gravity and without the faintest suspicion that I could be to myself any other being than the one he saw before him, so sure was he that, to me, he was the same individual who every day beheld himself in the mirror, knotting his little black cravat, with familiar objects all around him. Do you get it, now? I simply had to wink at him, too, by way of signifying roguishly, “Look underneath! Look underneath!”
