“Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. The passion of pent-up speech compelled action of some sort. ‘You’d do the same. Keep your eye upon the lad. I was born of one Suzanne Valade and an Englishman, Nicholas Charvill. ’ ‘Poor little devil,’ said Gerald, genuinely sorry for her. “Your mother was a Gypsy. But there's a person in the hall—a very odd sort of man—waiting to see him, who won't be sent away. “Now she’s all hat and ideas,” he said, with an air of humor. ‘But what will happen to Lucia? Are we to kill her?’ ‘Of course not.
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