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. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. “Splendid you are looking to-day, Miss Stanley,” he said. She began rubbing it with her pocket-handkerchief. There was some justification for her annoyance, for negotiation of the secret passage demanded either a stout heart, or a desperate one.
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