She was guided into the dock and prompted by a helpful police inspector. It was. She shuddered as his naked body pressed against her. Then he rallied, smiling a little. Tombs were desecrated, beautiful statues toppled, and the colorful shops that she had been enchanted by along the canal had been closed or burned. 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 had a vision of policemen, reproving magistrates, a crowded court, public disgrace. All his interest in Ruth, all his care and solicitude, could now be translated into a single word—love. “Don’t you have a wife? Where are your children?” She asked. Other phrases returned now, like echoes. You really ought not to stay here and talk to us. There was nothing in his manner to suggest the misery of the preceding night.
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