If I didn't understand something, she would say, 'Would you like me to repeat the question?' with delicacy and grace, savoring the honeyed tones of her own voice. And that honey blended like wildflowers in a spring meadow with all the adventures and friendships of her mysterious life, in an indefinable accent that was both foreign and familiar, and actually more than familiar, dripping from my ears down into my heart. And I prayed that the Maestra would continue to speak with me like that forever, while I jotted down in my notebook every detail of a life that I hadn't lived, which she was bequeathing to me through her words.
–Nicola Gardini in Lost Words (trans. by Michael F. Moore)