A distant suggestion of chalets and a glimpse of the road set them talking for a time of the world they had left behind. One morning he caught her hand suddenly and kissed it. 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. It was a boy baby cooing in swaddling clothes, a baby who had just been born to the butcher's servant across the alley, the maid Isobella who trailed behind, beaming. Anything that drew attention to her must be avoided. Three a week is my allowance, and, if I get short ones, four. . .
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