“Your mother was a Gypsy. A child—as innocent as a child! Nothing about life; bemused by the fairy stories you writers call novels! I don't know what you have done; I don't care. Her father held some printed document in his hand, and appeared not to observe her entry. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man. There stepped forth a tall brown man. How came you to know it? Have you heard the name before?" "I think I have—long, long ago, when I was a child," replied Mrs. ” Annabel’s hand stole into his.
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