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He felt her observance and warmed to it. The two young fools laughed until they cried. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. 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. The morning swims in the lagoon had thickened the red corpuscle. Turning off again on the left, down Seacoal Lane, they arrived at the mouth of a dark, narrow alley, into which they plunged; and, at the farther extremity found a small yard, overlooked by the blank walls of a large gloomy habitation. Now there is none. Gladstone would have to a carelessly displayed interior on a dissecting-room table.
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