She was not
a child-lover by nature; but this child of her own, with her dark
softness, plump delicacy, giving disposition, her cooing voice, and
constant adjurations to "dear mum," was adorable. There was something
about her insidiously seductive. She had developed so quickly, with the
graceful roundness of a little animal, the perfection of a flower. The
Italian blood of her great-great-grandmother was evidently prepotent in
her as yet; and, though she was not yet two years old, her hair, which
had lost its baby darkness, was already curving round her neck and
waving on her forehead. One of her tiny brown hands had escaped the
shawl and grasped its edge with determined softness. And while Gyp gazed
at the pinkish nails and their absurdly wee half-moons, at the sleeping
tranquillity stirred by breathing no more than a rose-leaf on a windless
day, her lips grew fuller, trembled, reached toward the dark
lashes, till she had to rein her neck back with a jerk to stop such
self-indulgence. Soothed, hypnotized, almost in a dream, she lay there
beside her baby.
That evening, at dinner, Winton said calmly:
"Well, I've been to see Fiorsen, and warned him off. Found him at that
fellow Rosek's." Gyp received the news with a vague sensation of alarm.
"And I met that girl, the dancer, coming out of the house as I was going
in--made it plain I'd seen her, so I don't think he'll trouble you.
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