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. Wood, in a taunting tone. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. Do you hear me? Do you hear what I am saying?. If individuality means anything it means breaking bounds— adventure. But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. Their expression was so amiable, that it would have redeemed a countenance a thousand times plainer than hers.
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