She had heard the trader utter it many times. “Your mother was a Gypsy. I haven’t taken much account of it until now. Everything was done in the most legal and imposing way, but the whole thing was a fraud. A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin. A young man turned to pay the cabman. It was a bizarre sight, a miniature manor, replicated fully, walled in gray limestone. Someone ought to be with him until the doctor arrives.
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