Then suddenly with a rush came reality, came “growing up”; a hasty imperative appeal for seriousness, for supreme seriousness. 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. Like carpenter, like chips. She wanted air—and the distraction of having moving and changing things about her. It was not only that her father had said all sorts of inconsistent and unreasonable things, but that by some incomprehensible infection she herself had replied in the same vein. Then, her body still tense with the atoms of anger, she sat down upon the edge of the bed and rocked from side to side. Gerald noted the lady’s eyes brighten as she caught sight of him making his way through the throng towards her.
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