” “Of course,” his friend answered. The note-passer lagged behind with her. Much too formal for a cosy chat between old friends. She attacked his hair resolutely. She packed her backpack with a change of clothes, some rags, and her old length of piano wire. He had the appearance of a man who has known no rest for many nights. He wanted her named Mary. 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. Why aren’t you folded up clean in lavender—as every young woman ought to be? What have you been doing with yourself?. I was mean to him.
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