It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. Melusine seized her chance. 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. Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. "I know the house well; by the same token that it's a flash crib. “When one wants a thing more than anything else in the world,” she said with outrageous frankness, “one naturally wishes one had it. Were the parents agreeable? Were they of age? Had the license been procured? But here, in a far country, only the velvet manacles of wedlock were necessary. It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume. Was she interested in that young ass who was risking his bones over there in the city? They had come up on the same boat.
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