or shy people felt suddenly confident and at ease, or downhearted people felt happy and hopeful.
And if someone felt that his life had been an utter failure, and that he himself was only one among millions of wholly unimportant people
who could be replaced as easily as broken windowpanes, he would go and pour out his heart to Momo.
And, even as he spoke, he would come to realize by some mysterious means that he was absolutely wrong:
that there was only one person like himself in the whole world, and that, consequently, he mattered to the world in his own particular way.
Such was Momo's talent for listening. One day, Momo received a visit from two close neighbours who had quarrelled violently and weren't on speaking terms.
Their friends had urged them to “go and see Momo” because it didn't do for neighbours to live at daggers drawn.
After objecting at first, the two men had reluctantly agreed. One of them was the bricklayer who had built Momo's stove.
He had painted the pretty flower picture on her wall. Salvatore by name, he was a strapping fellow with a black moustache.
The other, Nino, was skinny and always looked tired.
Nino ran a small inn on the outskirts of town, largely patronized by a handful of old men
who spent the entire evening reminiscing over one glass of wine. Nino and his plump wife, Liliana, were also friends of Momo's.
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