His hat made a half-circle before it found his
head again.
"You pay early visits, mademoiselle," he said, his teeth showing rat-
like.
"And you late ones?" she asked meaningly.
"Not so late that I can't get up early to see what's going on," he
rejoined in a sour voice.
"Is it that those who beat you have to get up early?" she asked
ironically.
"No one has got up earlier than me lately," he sneered.
"All the days are not begun," she remarked calmly.
"You have picked up quite an education since you left the road and the
tan," he said with the look of one who delivers a smashing blow.
"I am not yet educated enough to know how you get other people to commit
your crimes for you," she retorted.
"Who commits my crimes for me?" His voice was sharp and even anxious.
"The man who told you I was once a Gipsy--Jethro Fawe."
Her instinct had told her this was so. But had Jethro told all? She
thought not. It would need some catastrophe which threw him off his
balance to make him speak to a Gorgio of the inner things of Romany life;
and child--marriage was one of them.
He scoffed. "Once a Gipsy always a Gipsy. Race is race, and you can't
put it off and on like--your stocking.
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