He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. “I cannot conceive,” he said, “how any other occupation could ever have occurred to you. ” Mr. 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. Now we meet again, and you will scarcely look at me.
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