“Oh, now I remember well,” replied Pinocchio; “the four pieces of money were swallowed when I took that medicine.”
At this third story the nose grew so long that poor Pinocchio could not turn himself round in the room. If he turned to one side, it struck the bed or the glass in the window; if he turned to the other side, it struck the walls or the door of the room; if he raised his head, he ran the risk of putting out one of the Fairy’s eyes.
And the Fairy looked and laughed.
“Why do you laugh?” asked the marionette, quite confused and surprised because his nose had grown so long.
“I laugh at the stories you have told.”
“How do you know that I have told stories?”
“Stories, my boy, are recognized immediately, because there are two kinds: there are stories that have short legs and stories that have long noses. Yours are the kind that have a long nose.”
Pinocchio, not knowing where to hide himself for shame, tried to get out of the room, but he did not succeed. His nose had grown so large that he could not go through the door.
