His glance swept up again and found her staring at him with much of her usual defiance, if a touch less of her customary assurance. Wood gave the required promise, though he could not help thinking that if either of them had cause to be jealous he was the party. There was a stain of wine upon her dress. She so wanted to keep her memory of him fresh, so wanted to memorize his kisses and to conjure his embrace someday when he was mere dust in the ground. 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. ‘You are an avid reader, I take it. " "A miniature! Of whom?" "That I can't say," replied Jack, mysteriously. . . "No friend like the mother, for the babby knows no other.
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