There was no way that she was going to marry Vittorio Amedeo. It was out of the question. So when his family raised a serious protest at his desire to marry her on the grounds that she was the daughter of a tailor, and not a woman of breeding or class she was relived. Not that she hadn’t enjoyed his thin, breathy kisses, or his strong hands fingering their way up her skirts. She had. But it was a relief to know that she would not be forced to marry a man simply because he wanted to possess her. She was not prepared to become a possession, and wanted very much to learn a trade, to learn anything, to discover herself. These were French ideas. Her mother dismissed everything she said with the condemnation of the “francese pigro.” She wanted so deeply to be taken seriously. She had no intention of becoming a seamstress, nor the dowdy daughter of a tailor, and least of all there was no possibility of her ever hoping to be anyone’s possession.
It was in this spirit, and with these feelings in mind that she packed her few belongings and set out upon the road which lead east, and out of town.
Years later this story would surface among her great grandchildren. The story of the Italian woman and the Czechoslovakian Chauffeur with feathers in his hat would be told, and changed, until it was almost completely unbelievable.