’ ‘That is not your affair. “We parted— that night the best of friends. Their faces were masks of abject horror, sunken and shriveled, their cheekbones protruding. A good deal of the food will be in tins. Perhaps I am still mad. “Your mother was a Gypsy. They clapped wildly afterward. ‘But I ain’t been idle, miss, I swear it. It is queer how ideas pop into one's head. ‘Ain’t no call for you to go a-blaming of yourself. Quite soon, after we were married—it was just within a year—I formed a friendship with the wife of a friend, a woman eight years older than myself.
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