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. (What was the name he had given her that day?) He was walking beside the chair upon which appeared to be a bundle of colours. I sang to him, and he was satisfied. It is queer, but men of education and good birth fall swiftest and lowest. She had been so young then. The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. Old saltwater was right.
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