I'll call for you after lunch. I could tell it was Italian, you see. What of that?" "Vot 'o that!" echoed Sharples, peevishly: "Everythin'. It was wonderful to think this thing had lived, had felt and suffered. She had black hair, fine eyebrows, and a clear complexion; and the forces that had modelled her features had loved and lingered at their work and made them subtle and fine. "There's an old proverb," continued Wood, rising and walking towards the fire, "which says,—'Put another man's child in your bosom, and he'll creep out at your elbow. "You forgot your lunch," she said.
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