Her father became much less distant towards his only daughter in the days that followed. He returned, sitting on the floor beside the couch adoring her and stroking her bare arms. “Your mother was a Gypsy. There was more shouting. It had a tiny flaw, most bizarre. ‘There you have soldiers. ’ ‘But this is idiot. The thought made her exquisitely happy. Hers was beauty on a large scale no doubt; but it was beauty, nevertheless: and the carpenter thought her eyes as bright, her complexion as blooming, and her figure (if a little more buxom) quite as captivating as when he led her to the altar some twenty years ago. Standing before a mirror set on a dresser between the windows, two hands frozen in the act of adjusting a wide-brimmed hat on her head, stood a lady in a dark riding habit, her startled features turned towards the door. She loves you too well for that.
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