We had such a pride in you, such hope in you. And listen, John. If he decided to watch television upstairs with his mother, she would probably retire before he did, but she was a light sleeper. John’s father piped up, bored with the conversation, and asked, “Where do you get your blue eyes, Lucy? What nationality are you?” “I’m mostly Italian, but I get my blue eyes from my mother, who was Gypsy. “I am very glad to hear you say it,” he repeated, and refrained from further inquiry. Coldly she spoke, in a distinctly accented voice. She had found him! Excitement welled. “You do not know what such a relation means. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts.
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