‘Aye, that she was. And as she was yet waiting for her tea to come she saw this man again. I never see them, they never even call. “Your mother was a Gypsy. He was a wonderful little creature with a perfect tiny face, mottled pink cheeks, and eyes brighter than May. The two sisters were very fond of one another, I believe. Que pasa con ustedes?” He returned in bad Spanish. Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and creepers. Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. Mr. He had been quite right to sit down. "It's a mercy you both escaped!" ejaculated Wood, only just finding his tongue.
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