His eyes were small and grey; as far apart and as sly-looking as those of a fox. She closed her eyes and felt again an echo of the swamping warmth that had attacked her when his lips met hers. She had to exert tremendous energy not to sniff the air for his blood. But if not himself, there would be another soon enough. John’s father piped up, bored with the conversation, and asked, “Where do you get your blue eyes, Lucy? What nationality are you?” “I’m mostly Italian, but I get my blue eyes from my mother, who was Gypsy. Pure luck! If the boy had grown a moustache or a beard, a needle in the haystack would have been soft work. He glanced out of the window, looked back at the major and grasped the handle of the door. Surely she could ignore him.
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