He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. Marvel. He seemed wholly insensible to the rain, though it presently descended in torrents, and continued his search as ardently as before. ‘Might have forgiven him,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘if he hadn’t taken the babe. Let me go my own way towards them. “Your mother was a Gypsy. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing.
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